Mount Rushmore Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

Oh great mountain that bears the feeling of our nation,
That embosses the harrow echoes of our fallen brethren,
Oh great hill where our souls breath light out of darkness,
Taking a silhouette of great vestibules which encompass peaceful deliverance.

A grafted land pledged to the red man,
A terrain that embodies thunderous rifts over siphoned valleys,
A place where the yoke of great tribesman ensue,
in a homestead that curtsies to postulant adversities.

It is in this sanctum of homogenous greenery where pines pinch a starry sky,
Where solidarity edifices above languid clouds,
Where settlers bulb a rabid land,
Alongside freemasons and chieftains entombed in endemic love,
we welcome all peregrines to breath the silhouette of our martyrs dormant on a bold mountaintop.

As the sheepish sky slumbers,
And sunset drives below its horizon,
Dust flows upward engulfed in a saffron penumbra,
Leaving ones soul to souse in a glistening quarry of life.