- Climbed the mountain one more time, a desert found instead.
- Drawing deep from in the well, its water long since dead.
- Wand’ring to and running fro, for water and for bread,
- Starving, thirsty, seeking with a mouth all cracked and bled.
- Compass pointing to the north, and south, and east, and west.
- Rhombus—once a square—appears, askew and quite compressed.
- Soul and body, once nourished, now nothing to digest
- Standing, sitting—kneeling, too—collectively confess.
- A grip, a shake, a sign, a name; a swipe across the brow;
- A leaf, a cup, an ear, a tree; a drop atop the crown.
- Hearken. Yes. A bowing head. Hands up, and then hands down.
- Climbing up, and to the core, once smiling, now a frown.
- Watching from the valley great the mountain as it falls:
- Gold and silver, brass and clay, demolished by a ball.
- No warning shout, no sounding trump, no watchmen on the wall.
- Like a thief in darkest night, the stealth will shock us all.
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