The Weight Of The Mountain Poem by Seamus O' Brian
The Weight Of The Mountain
The wind blows
scraping over the rocks
howling through the hallways
of untread stone
calling my name
reminding me I am but dust
telling me to forget the dreams of
sunlight, the unencumbered dancing
on the flowered grasses of the valley.
So i gather up the burden of the mountain
and I rise.
Through skin and muscle and sinew
sink the weight of the tresses
and yet I rise
To tread the stones of cruelty
to shrug aside the chill
blade of the wind
in its relentless pursuit.
But I will raise my chin
to the unseen line of the horizon
lost to sight but not to hope.
And against the howling lies of the wind
I will stumble the words
of a song I know not yet but will
Yes I am dust.
Yes I bear the scars of a thousand blows.
Yes I hear nothing but the taunts of the wind
Taste nothing but the grime of the trail
See nothing but the gloom of the rocks
Feel nothing but the jagged teeth of the crags
and the weight of the mountain.
But I will not forget the kiss of sunlight
Nor the forgiving coolness of the valley stream
Nor the comforting mercy of the meadow green.
Yes I am dust
But I remember.
Such vivid images of the misery of mountain climbing, spurred on by the memory of sunshine, coolness, green... Was it a particular mountain? It reminds me of our ascent of the peak of Mt Meru, Tanzania. It was gruelling!
Actually, the mountain referenced here was a particularly grueling stretch of otherwise ordinary days, but under the intense pressure of multiple life issues. I have had the privilege of hiking up many beautiful mountains, but none on the African continent, yet. (My son was, interestingly, just in Tanzania for the last 9 months, teaching English in Zanzibar, and we were to meet up and climb Kili, but, unfortunately, my schedule proved prohibitive) I think of Mt. Talic, overlooking Lake Tahoe, which I climbed with insufficient water and little food. I was exhausted when reaching the summit, and just lay there for some time, before finding the energy to return. An elderly man came whistling up to the top from the other direction, with an enormous pack on. He waved, and smiled, and passed on down the side from which I had come. He has become the icon of what I want to achieve when I am his age. Still climbing, still whistling, still smiling. Thanks again, and sorry for the long-winded reply :)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/30/2024 11:05:59 AM # 1.0.0.1119
Mother nature such a wondeful thing from the tallest mountains to the smallest speck of dust. You really have a way with words, your exspression are wonderful, a most enjoyable read. Annette
Thank you, Annette, I have always found the marvels of nature to be powerfully inspiring. Many thanks for your thoughtful and kind remarks. :)