Beneath the mossy turf of maple shades,
Lie the remains of mountain stairs,
Dark stone dragged from barbarian shores,
An offering of fealty,
Honored by a century’s duty,
But now, having earned its repose,
It sleeps and dreams of thundering feet…
… Of a country at war, and blood,
The blood of warrior-monks chanting,
Those ignoble wars of conquest,
The sudden silence of peace reduced.
… Upon fallen leaves, and soft wind,
The quietude belies hints of snow,
Peasants return from towns below,
Pause to huddle near lanterns for warmth.
… Of children playing in the woods,
Youthful laughter herald the era,
Fading in the distance and time,
Leaving behind only snow bunnies.
… Of a vengeful conflagration,
Whose consuming fires wipe clean the world,
Leaving a stairway to nothing,
Dutifully still, standing their ground.
… A mossy growth conquering stone,
Muffling sound beneath churning life,
Softened by trickling water,
Lulled to a long sleep, a final rest.
… Blaring from a set of headphones,
Held in the hands of a weeping child,
Staring at a luminous screen,
Seeking a support that isn’t there,
Dripping regret on hidden stairs,
Leading both up and down to the past,
And futures that may not be there.