by Nick Gisburne
Her frozen tears are jewels for the pure,
Who crack a brittle harvest from her face.
The spirit of the mountain must endure
Their trespass with immeasurable grace.
They worshipped, once, with reverential dread,
Lamenting that the winter’s winds were cursed,
But soon they came with avarice instead,
And sold the silver treasures they dispersed.
She looks upon the town they build below,
A cluttered desecration at her feet.
They do not see her thicken as the snow
Becomes a heavy mantle, now complete.
The spirit of the mountain takes a breath,
Awakening an avalanche of death.
