In the Valley

In the Valley where
The music of the People of the Earth
Echoes, ripples, dances
From the peaks
Of Mountains tall and
Sublime in their grandeur,
Through the sun-drenched blades
Of the uncivilized Grass that grows as its
Nature intends, from
The humblest of places towards the sky,
On the wings of the Wind which
Shapes the Earth, as the Artist's
Hands shape clay, before rising up to
Carry the music to Heaven,

In the Valley where
The River flows, whispering the secrets
Of the Mountains to the
People of the Dust who bathe in its
Current of ice to cleanse themselves
Of their dark self-induced nature;
Where the Mountains are sentinels guarding
The Creatures below,
As they have done since
The Great Movement of the Earth and
Clashing of Stone that formed them
(How it must have seemed to those ancient beings
A cataclysmic event!- an
Apocalypse reshaping the great
Facade of the Earth for a new Time!),

In the Valley where
The Stars wink to Life and
Spin on the axis of the domed Sky,
Dancing the ancient Dance of
Praise, long forgotten by the People of the Dirt,
As they sparkle like the jewels in the
Eyes of Seraphim, so close to Heaven that
They are the Pearls of
Its grand gate;
Where the Moon looks down, a Mother
Watching Her children, the People of the Ashes, as they
Sleep, Her face alight
With compassion and shadowed by
The Sorrow of the
Knowledge that no moment lasts
(What loss She must have seen!- What
Pain witnessed and shared in!);

In the Valley where
Darkness caresses the Land like a
Lover returned from the Dead,
As the River tinkles and twinkles with the Ethereal
Light of the Moon, and the haunted
Night blankets the Earth in
A chill that seeps and burrows
To the Bone of the
Living, as the Worm does the Corpse, so
That only the Sun, as it peaks in
The morn over the Rock faces of the Mountains,
May hope to thaw Snow and melt the
Frozen Hearts of Man;
Where the smoke-sweet musk of breath rises
Like a prayer from the mouths of the
People of the Soil towards Heaven until the
Sun burns it away at Dawn;

In the Valley where
The Air is thick with the lost magic of the
Trees, and the Stones
Under foot and the Rocks in
That ancient whispering River, worn
Smooth by Time and the
Caress of the Artist's hands,
Remember, as the
Mountains and the Moon, the wisdom
Of all that came before, forgotten long
Ago by the People of the Ashes;
Where the Will of the Wild has not been tamed and
The People of the Dirt may
Hope to regain the innocent instinct
Of their true Nature whilst among the base
Creatures and ancient magic of the
Mountain-guarded Valley;

In the Valley where
The Soul is finally set
Free to breathe in the Earth in all
Its glorious wonderment;
Where the Spirits of the towering Mountains, the
Whispering River, the sun-drenched Grass, the
Wind, the Moon, the Stars,
Dark Night, warm Dawn, the Sun above, the
Creatures below, and
The People of the Dust abide;
In that mystic, mist-filled Valley, there
I, of the People of the Earth,
Looked upon the
Face of God.