It’s like a memorial in my mind.
Time has worn away the stone’s face
But the words remain
In layers of rock’s veins
We are mayflies to the mountains.
The sword in the stone was plunged
(Does the ache linger?)
Then hid from our hundred eyes
(Has our wound sealed?)
We are mayflies
To those mighty mountains.
Our battles are always lost
Only to begin with every sunrise.
We are dead.
We are born.