The mountain is never quiet
it celebrates the solitude of noise
the ancient murmurs of life, death
and all the in-betweens
in the colors of quartz and sandstones
a mountain breathes the carbons of long bygones
and we breath her oxygen in return.
I remember that parable by D.T. Suzuki
“when I began to study zen, mountains are mountains;
when I thought I understand zen, mountains were not mountains;
but when I understand zen, mountains were again mountains”
But in my case, “mountains were me”
a noise mistaken
by society for silence.
I know you don’t believe me
if I say mountains do speak
but if you can feel wearing
her canopy of junipers and pines;
a moment before, a piece of rock on her peak
touching the sky, the next moment
gravitates with all its might to the abyss
that “Plong !”, if you can hear
and on a fine day, when she loses herself
to thousands of roaring landslides
you will know.
Watching the mountain,
all I can be is a naked impossibility of death and silence.