Hands red upon the roughness of the stone
Upon the mountain path I walk alone
No gods watch on, nor men, nor kings, no queens
No one to tell me what this struggle means.
The stone is me,
Must surely be
To move it needs
My energy.
I am the life of this cold stone.
It is the brother of my bone.
The mountain peak, descend, descend!
There rolls away my only friend.
I scurry down to where it’s sent
And that’s the way my freedom’s spent.
A Life in Poems 