The Mountain Poem by Glen Martin Fitch

Oh mighty fallen Titan,
once so great,
with ancient purple cheeks
now cracked by tears,
has fatal time
so caught thee through the years
and kept thy backbone
to this rigid state?
What art thou still?
Thy clutching hands dead weight?
Each knuckle's rigor mortalness
yet leers the fear
that thou art dead.
Thy scalp appears
a snowy crown
now frigid by thy fate.
Yet is there frozen
in some cavern's yawn
still blood enough
of passion's molten flame
to stir thy sleeping body
from this trance?
Say this,
that thou wilt rise
'gainst what was drawn
and claim thy throne
and reign on never tame;
to take thy stance and
do thy cosmic dance!