I long have stood and gazed upon your face,
observing cracks and crags and flattened ground;
I look for paths that lead to peak from base,
and though I've searched for tens of scores of years,
no road nor street at all have I yet found.
But I have waited far too long to climb
its side; the lions, tigers, wolves, and bears,
which I once fought and killed in since past times,
would eat me now so easily, as if
I were a shard of ice and they the sea,
but now I wish atop the peak to be
and looking down upon the world below,
from my all-seeing point on that plateau.
But fate seems to have placed me on a cliff:
I could still try to climb this mount and chance
my life to unforeseen events and storms,
or I could eat some roots and in a trance
of what I want to know myself inform.
I dare not try to leap from those two sides
I have not mentioned yet, as they are far
too terrible: off one I kill myself
and see what place in which I then reside;
the next I give an arm, but get a scar,
to drink a witch's brew from off her shelf,
and be like Faust, a drop by years of age.

My gods, oh, what decision shall I make?
I wish, I want, I need to see this cage
and all its bars, to watch the play that's staged
upon the land below, to know what's fake
and what will be the truth. If I had that,
the knowledge of that then, the now, I'd quake.
The earth below, with hills, with vales, plains flat,
plains rough would be before me, like a map,
and I could see the hidden tricks and traps,
And I could see the sanctums and the shrines.
So, oh, my gods, send me a sign on what
is that which I should do?

Are those white lines
across the sky and into halves they cut
the night I see? They look like broad, straight fins
and are gray clouds, but there's perfection in
its utter clarity. It must be drawn
by Fate's still hand, a silver thread which brawn
nor brain nor any mortal's hand can break.
But what, I ask, what do they mean? What is
their purpose, how does it pertain to me?
Are there some meanings I can't see, I miss?
Am I asleep to truth and can I wake?

Perhaps, just that perhaps, I think I see
some truth in this, the divinating sky.
The left, the past; the right, the next; the line
between the two, the now. E'en birds who fly
among the clouds can't see the next when in
another place; they cannot see the sign.
The future is cacophony, a din
that's visual. But I, perhaps, can see
the plain surrounding me from on the mount
and peak. The gods, through clouds, have answered me!
I need not drink from that infernal fount
of witch's brew; I need not die by my
own hand; I only need to climb up high!
But when should I now start this trek? Not soon
enough, no doubt. My limbs, so stiff, will not
relax with time. Tonight, I say the moon
will rise and I will also rise. The thought
to see what next will be excites me so,
I cannot wait. I'll climb, right now, to know!

~

Could He, the deity, have told me lies?
I faced my fears and phobias to climb
the mount, and yet he taunts, as if my guise
of piety were false. Controlling time
and e'en that, but seeing just is my
request, and that, to him, is still too great.
I wished to know my destiny and fate,
yet he placed clouds above that plain; the sky
denies my plea, for knowledge, even that
small bit, devalues power, glory, might.
Upon this mountain now, I'll never sight
what could have been if I had lived upon
that plain and walked the hills, the moors, the flat
and hidden valleys. Life is walking on!

 

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