It is a certain day today, that mixed with your clay. Apple sent, bottle neck, hiding our secrets, within the clay. Time stood still, mountain fragrance bestowed upon the air. Hills the footstool of clay and rock. Within the earth, springs of water dance free. Trees torn wild, from there root mate genealogy. Come now, see this mountain flare, rising above you. Cloud and flame, long scars upon this mountain body, self afflicted, tortuous red. Burnt ash, the birds breathe in, they long for their songs of a yesteryear, the music trilogy has disappeared. This sacred mountain lying desolate among its peers, laver scared everywhere. Black and white among coloured, a crow like beauty. It draws us in to see its broken sublime, brittle dew, fading glory. It's not dead, it's only lying, coming alive one day.