Your silhouette is framed by the crags of the mountain range,
That circles the valley with a mother's careful gaze,
Lips forming a hesitant permission of passage,
A reverent monk of the expansive unknown,
For we are but visitors,
In a land far older than the souls that nestle in our chests,
Picking our way across the rocks like nomadic spirits,
You begin to speak of the past,
Mottled by darkness like a spilled inkwell,
But every word that cascades from your mouth is a jewel,
I stoop to pick up and examine admiringly,
Exchanges are made on the mountain top,
Swapping of stories like provisions and rations,
Divvied up between two ravenous minds,
As we make our leave to go,
I nod silently to the watchman,
And we forgo our crown of clouds,
And descend to the valley below.

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