Poetry Atop a Mountain

20130325 1436If you thought poetry existed only in between the pages of a book, you’d be in for a surprise.

Somewhere, high above in the mountains, almost lost in the clouds, hidden from civilization, is etched in stone the labors of men who build these impossible roads – at 13,700 feet above sea level.

When you come to the end 
Of the road my old friend
There is always a hill
To be climbed just ahead

At the end of the track
Though your feet turn you back
There is a vale and a peak
Where your spirit is led

There is a fold of green
And a hush of snow
Which you must know
Where you must go

So or blood and our bone
Ours through earths mighty load
And the end of your track
Is the start of our road

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