These are the mountains, the misty mountains

where the rocks wait, to sing in chorus, 

frowning music into a scar. Here there are

mountains, closed, misty mountains

they do not care if we aren’t. Or are, 

for that’s how it is and always were.

For in the larger scheme of things,

life is not life, not without a care…

So keep the rain coming,  you intemperate

clouds, your presence neither fair nor here.

And after all the battles are won, 

just remember a fathers’ warning:

“you cannot play, no you cannot play

with knives. And not expect a scar”.