I write to the mountains.
I write to the mountains, they listen and see.
And say nothing.
I speak my mind – one lost since birth and hopes in waiting to find its way through the maze in death.
I speak my mind but it does not speak me.
It abstains from words – those which slice through our hearts so that we bleed forever but never die.
It abstains from thoughts – those which haunt us at day as shards of morning sickness, at night as dying stars; terminal cases of despair.
It abstains from life – that which does not kill us, makes us blind.
And so I write.
To the mountains…