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.
A Name is carved in the memorial.
That is my mind.
A title murmured; a psalm, a hymn
Then hate for those towers of stone resonates
In my chest, in my head
In stuttered breath…
“ALL MAYFLIES TO THE MOUNTAINS!”
Hear my roar!
This sweet Name shall be no more!
As I batter and shatter my delicate wings
On your stone cold skin
Your heart remains untouched within
Because I am not a mountain.
For I am mayfly
And have no monstrous might
(Has my wound already sealed?)
My own wounds do not heal.
This is the battlefield
For the memorial to my mind.
To fill your shallow scars, my fleshed Blood,
The dust settles
I welcome resignation
It has become my shroud.
The sighs of all the dying mayflies
From the eyes of the mountaintops
Snow, flakes of rock, rain
Into the memorial of my mind
The words are hidden
You are NOT one of mine!
But that Name –
It is forbidden!
The mountains’ scars remain
Our Name on the memorial
From my mind
Makes you Mountain, molehill.
My passion is mayfly to your mountain
But our Name stays carved at the memorial
Why, my mind?
With all the pretty words I can’t bury
And all those dead I can’t erase.
Time goes by.
– For Mayflies and their Mountains