The Mountain

The Mountain I climb,

Like hilltops treasured by Spanish Christians,

And tarnished by invaders,

I seek continuity,

For answers to a holy prolific destiny,

A prophetic eagle perching itself stubbornly,

On the rock’s face,

Eclipsing the sun’s s stare from me,

My intentions incline peace and tranquility,

To broaden my horizons for a worldly age,

Advancing beauty and recognisance,

I venture the fearless ferocious mountainside,

With every footstep in my ascend,

In a voyage for benign knowledge,

The Pyrenees cry relentlessly for my youthful soul,

To clamber profusely and I wander,

Chasing the stormy hills of the snowy escalades,

The scale upwards is a taskful taste in my mouth,

And my sweat continues to pour from my lips,

My biting is ceaseless and tense,

I count the number of times,

I have considered these attempts,

The calm blueness eminates the meek slopes crescendo,

And I rise grappling the dubious feats of the Earth,

Clambering purpotently rocks dropping fast,

I see disaster and a contemptuous flow,

The river valley is now hard to cross,

I am at my fears and utmost,

I carry a weighty levy on my shoulders,

Travelling through these shallow waters,

Wading through dirt and thick dark mud,

Muck and dust fill the air I breathe,

I collapse, my arm covers my chest,

And I bend and lower on one knee,

I shift my weight incessantly against the gale,

The snow is loud like thunder;

I am marred by the icy peaks' surrender.