in his front there lies a mountain.
that a miner must shovel through, bit by bit
a mountain, formed by little gravels and pebbles.
picked up by hand, piece by piece,
in his journey across the lands.
each piece, like a fragment of the great ruby in the chest.
definitive of every moment, every step, every second.
it feels wonderous.
as his shovel went through the stones,
the blue? the magenta? the red? purple? green?
an endless colourful mix.
nonetheless, he was tired too.
fatigue that set in from the endless turmoils,
his mining helmet, worn out.
trudgingly, as those boots went into the gravel,
a conflicted struggle.
to climb further would mean a precarious journey to undertake
to backtrack, and no one would probably scale across it.
not after him
it was his path that no one would climb.
albeit slightly saddened.
yet, a burning flame was rekindled.
seeking the little pebbles that gave much life today.
the wishes caught the fire again.
the miner stood watching, as the remaining ashes were blown away.
disliking the idea of corrosion of the stones by the wind,
a slow, chronic feeling of loss.
he picked up the pickaxe, placed it upon the ground.
here, he shall lay for the night.
ready to take upon another journey through the sunrise.
Labels: expression, memory
