The Voice of the Mountains

The wind’s low hymn through the jagged peaks,
A chorus of echoes from centuries past.
Granite thrones crowned with untamed clouds,
Their patience as vast as the shadows they cast.

I stood on the edge where the valley collapsed,
Air thin with the weight of unspoken decree.
The mountains don’t shout—they hum and they sigh,
Their silence as sharp as the cold on the scree.

"We’ve seen it all," the ridges declared,
"Empires that rose, only to fall.
Rivers that carved us with delicate rage,
Frostbitten dawns and wild tempests' call."

Snowmelt wept down their timeworn faces,
Streams threading like veins through the stone.
With every drop, they spoke of endurance,
Of solitude’s power to fashion a throne.

Once, a village had nestled below,
Its hearths aglow in the canvas of night.
Now, only the remnants of hearthstones remain,
Their stories carried in eagles’ flight.

The mountains remember the songs of the lost,
Each crevice a vault for forgotten refrains.
With every rumble of shifting plates,
They murmur the names of the ones who remain.

“Patience,” they told me as I leaned on the ledge,
“Not all growth can be seen by the eyes.
Roots stretch deeper in the quietest hours,
True strength is the kind that never denies.”

I pressed my palm to the cold, ancient stone,
Felt the steady thrum of its ancient heart.
Not the wild beat of a fleeting moment,
But a rhythm that’s played since the world’s start.

The wind tugged my coat as I turned to descend,
Their parting words an unspoken decree:
“Come back when you’re ready to listen again—
Our wisdom was never meant to be free.”

Below, I walked through the hush of the pines,
The mountains’ voice still a song in my chest.
I’d come seeking grandeur, found something greater—
A lesson in patience, a home for unrest.

- Khushi Kaul