John Lentini

Upon This Mount 

Upon This Mount

 

Upon this mount stands forlorn

      my empire lies below       

To thee I do bow

 

Chill be the wind

Warm is the sun

Damp is the earth beneath me

 

Moveth passively thy dry scorched seedless pods

Feel they the wind’s chill in the autumn of their lives?

They, the new life, first since the inferno

Now they, too, are bare

Here I stand and see them as such

Seeth the wind them as I?

Seeth I them as such tomorrow?

Be that the mind of man makes that

      to his liking                 

 

But yet, why chilleth I the wind?

Must be I that feels chill

For would not be chill without I

’Tis I who defineth chill

Who makes chill, chill

Yet I am more than that to be chilled

For chill comes from sense

 

Come behold ’tis I on the mount

I have come to greet you

Feasteth thou upon my magnificence

But where, where you be

I still waiteth, don’t you see?

You don’t come, I am left alone

I cry at my loneliness

Drown in my sadness

For I am yet to be recognized

 

But what?  What sayeth you?

      oh lowly rock beneath my feet

What knows you, you piece of mountain

      you tell me the story of ages

      I see time flash before my eyes,

      in the setting sun’s reflection on your mold

      how unexpected

      what joy be this

      from thou I have learned much

      be you brother of the burning bush of

            Moses?

      yes, of course, I think that be so

 

Sense I your presence

      you are all around

Like so many dancing fairies

      your essence is here

      on that I subsisteth

      for that am I here

      upon this moment—my throne

      but forgeteth not your aid

Upon this mount stands forlorn

My empire lies below

To thee I do bow