The mountain is crying.

While spring's bloom displays its radiance,

and the cattle low in contented peace,

his tears roll,

in rivulets down his granite cheeks.

What ancient tragedy,

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overpowering even the emerald glow of soft swaying oaks,

could fuel his timeless sorrow.

How can we ever know,

the meaning of his tears.

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Those who know will see, and those who don't will wonder.

Here lie my fey musings of the past three years.

Thank you for reading.