The grave lies down, etched into the mountain dirt like the freshness of tomorrow. The wind bears the scent of olives ground, mingling with the dampness of lang syne. Tinkling bells hang from the necks of four-footed beasts bleating their fate, evoking tones of repose and silent passings; mortality. Vast mountains lie – professing innocuity whilst hiding warriors beneath their rugged mantles. Time no longer is. Deafening silence motionlessly moves bearing witness to a space liberated, matter re-formed, a land anointed.
ready tomb hails death
I, mountain deep, do unveil –
Written for PTWWW Be Inspired Challenge #9