The Pilgrimage

Prickly soft needles lend a pungent smell,
Giving lightly under feet that know the softness well.

Marbled rocks protruding, mossy from the ground,
While heavy hanging atmosphere muffles all the sound.

A dark and secret somberness veils all the place,
And single shafts of light fall down with confidential grace.

The way is working upwards, the craggy hill conspires
To make the honest hide their fears, and lead them over biers

That are filled with stones and deadwood, and never-living rot,
And crumble under footfalls that the ever-living caught.

The summit is approaching, the bells of lightness knell.
The sun breaks to the open sky - an egg yolk from its shell.

A fresh, clean wind comes over to cleanse the climber's soul.
The breathing of the mountain makes the hallowed journey whole.