Forewriters

I see their backs 
In the distance, 
Hunched, but 
Tall and broad and towering.  
They stand, differing heights, 
Up and down like 
Ominous peaks. 
They block, from sight,
Streams and oceans like 
Guardians of a sacred shrine. 
Treasures, told– 
But secret. 
So obvious! I see their scribblings
Scarring the mountain-scapes 
And fault lines. 
Their words are etched into our land’s escape. 
I watch them grow, extend, 
Carving river and cavern, 
Hewing dirt and filth– 
Their silt sparkles. 
Remove your lofty peaks! 
I love your etchings and carvings 
And scribblings. 
I would etch them onto myself. 
I have gazed at your cracked spines,
Since the dawn of my age;
I have wondered at 
What they really hide. 
Oh, steep mountains, 
Teach me how to write rivers into landscapes. 
My hand it aches 
And my pen wears dry. 

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