The Mountain - Poem by Francis Santaquilani
She's bored these days.
She taps her fingers and
Her eyes drift around the valley.
Monuments to her hang off
Her slopes like gaudy jewelry.
Unopened and opened gifts piled up
At her feet. All the haggling and dealing
For pieces of her and all the praises written
And spoken of her natural beauty
Don't make her heart race
Like the men who once killed and climbed
Over the corpses just to caress her face.
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