Climbing the hill,
Where a mountain once used to be.
Deciphering at will,
Of what it meant,
Through the clues that may have been left behind.
Collective tiny souvenirs,
To someday look back as a reminder,
Of how useless my attempts to conquer the mountain would be.
Blind sided surfers,
Clear hearted thrill seekers,
Free willed and good natured,
Beings formed from natural disasters.
Bowing to one another,
Embracing each of their neighbours,
Chanting songs of enlightenment to one another.
Disturbed and confused,
As we looked to another,
For any signs of life beyond these deserters.
Thinking of what may have been,
Had it not been for what they called tradition and culture.
Muttering a language we couldn’t understand,
Beyond expressions of joy and their desire for shelter.
We thought better of it,
To leave it all together,
Thinking nothing of it except for a sign that we weren’t welcome.
Realising on the way down,
All this time none of them had ever mentioned,
Their hatred for us for destroying the legacy of their ancestors.
Instead embracing us,
Wishing us well,
On a journey we had deprived from completion.
Compulsion and desire had blinded us,
Our thrill had overcome the best of us,
Leaving behind tin cans and other miscellaneous objects we’d gathered.
What we had hoped would be a simply gesture of respect,
They’d reveal the irony of it all,
The mountain we were climbing had failed to fulfil us.
A work in progress,
Of light hearted conversations,
Of mugs filled with warm water,
Of souls that were lost within themselves.
Never stopping to realise,
What had been right in front of us,
The beauty of what their ancestors had left us,
Of erroneous endeavours.
Never to fulfil us,
The mountain would,
All the while ignoring,
The good natured people inhabitants were there to protect us.