Echoes from Mountains

In the heart of the loudest sound sleeps the miracle worker. He brings you light, warmth from the darkest corners of the wilderness. Your friend, my friend, this harbinger of happy days sits in all the shadows that follow us.

The sol looks up from the clouds to greet this winged stranger, and thus our sun comes up radiating with light. We open our windows to a new morning, a light lifting our drowsy cells to a sudden moment of clarity. 

Bruised bodies and bleeding skin raise their heads to the sky. Two beings in their parallel realities wake up, chest heaving - searching for a lost companion. 

He watches you, this messenger from the mountains. He watches while you smile remembering a happy memory, he watches you cry yourself to sleep. He also pulls the quilt up to your face, shields your trembling body from the bitter cold wind. 

Our work takes up most of the hours in a day. This is how we choose to keep ourselves from weariness and chaos. And yet, they slip through the little gaps in the walls. They fly in with a gust and trespasses into our solace.

While our wounded bodies reach out to the rain, the wind, the grey clouds and a ray of sunlight...slowly walks in the shadow worker. 

He bears an infinite vessel of absorption and soaks in the abyss of smoke we sometimes find ourselves lost in. Our friend also brings with him the songs of the mountains, the sound of power and transcendence.

                          

The mountain king does not walk alone. Before dusk descends, he wraps close his bundle of belongings and waits against a tall street lamp. The dimming light slowly increases its flow with the arrival of a perfume. It tickles his nose, plays with his senses.

The shadow under the light flickers as a winged fairy silently walks close to his face. 

He watches her watching him. She is his source of power, the fire to his sun, the hurricane to his drizzle.

Not a word uttered yet all spoken, our winged friends embrace.

An open joy glides down with a smile to the sad-eyed sleeping children of men. 

Their silent laughter bounce off the atmosphere as soundless echoes from the mountains.

Through birch trees and firs, they fly and the moonlight plays with their wings. 

When the curtains are drawn and the beds are made, when the last cup of hot coffee is drunk and the tapes echo the final chords of Schubert or Bach, our subtle visitors arrive with words of comfort in a lover's whispers, a mother's caresses, a friend's laughter and even sometimes as silent solitude of calm. 

This is the voice of the mountain. 

                                     

~ fin ~