Silent Choir
it takes a moon and it's shine, a mountain and it's shade, a journey and a glare to create a landmark.
together in the wee hours or when the sun stretched far and wide, a melody rises, sonic gold; it weaves paths, sprouts cacti from atop rocky slopes– there they play the part of a choir of natural organs who together sing silently to the mountains in compositions centuries long.
one is static. ecstatic. the rivers of the mountains pour from our own eyes.
all that exists becomes real but as we cease to exist, all else turns more true; colours vibrate, details are nitid.
the sun is just light that creates shadows, the mountains are giants cut apart to let us through, the rocks shift and stare and promise to safe-keep our memories.
we are transitory. our lives as long as seven hours on a highway, their light a single spark in the inferno of a star.
we are eternal. we dissipate as mist, condense into canyons and cliffs; our heartbeats change the ocean's currents and our veins throb with the earth's fire streams.
we are nothing, we are all.
the ground is burnt so it may be reborn, and so we must burn in order to grow.
