The Quester - Poem by Martins Deep

The Quester

The valley's call is louder

than the mountain's peak.

I fell.

Fell halfway from the stairway to heaven.

Here before me are supple lilies swaying in the evening breeze

like ballet dancers.

Its springs knows how seductive

to whisper my name.

Her healing fragrance

like mother's damp wrapper

promising to heal my wounds

leaving no scars.

The mount stands unmoved

by my flood of tears

like a child failing to climb up

its mother's breast that will not let it.

Bleeding wounds grace my skin.

It must be bad blood seeping out

that makes one a wimp.

My aching body tangos

With desires

Desires priced by pain and ruins

Ruins of old self knowledge.

I roam in my thought

lost in its endless maze.

No one finds you here.

I return somehow to the bewitching vale robed with greenery

like Flora grooms it.

Its been ages I slept on a thornless bed in the name of passion.

I fall on broken knees.

''Its no use" I muse.

"I have tried"

I knew I lied.

I sigh, with my eyes

ether-wards

Without more words.

Gazing one more time

at the mount behind

My callous fingers uproots

A lily

Whose flower vase is the skull

I recognized to be brother's who slept here like I want to.

The enchantment breaks off me.

Eyes clear,

I surge towards the mountain

Like an enraged bull trampling over everything on my path already weedy.

Ever will remain my soul without rest till I conquer Everest.

I will never rest

till I conquer Everest

and on her breast

will I weave my nest

where I shall blow the shofar of conquest.

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