Liaztraht Roots Of The Mountain
The mountain breathes in silence,
its veins heavy with the weight of centuries.
Stone and soil gave rise to flesh,
spines carved from jagged cliffs,
With hands sculpted by the shifting earth.
We killed our father, our mother, our place of birth
we forgot our roots, we forgot our home
we turned the mountain over all for our programmed greed.
The roots, they reach towards the sky,
grasping, twisting, bleeding into the light.
Ancient voices murmur beneath the surface,
whispers of gods buried in time,
waiting to reclaim what was theirs.
The roots of the mountain carry us there
The wind carries the stories of the fallen,
lamentations drowned in the grinding rock.
Man rises, reaches, devours,
but the mountain watches, indifferent,
reminding all from whence they came.
