Fujisan

Some pictures can speak but can you hear 

Those stories that go beyond what men fear

Of gods churning an ancient white ocean,

Burying couldrons of grief-tinged devotion

Under this giant of a peakless mountain

Of zenness that comes with reason nor rhyme

For only they truly know the poetry of time

Can you hear those lies that mothers sing

Of folklores, sweet loves and dreams of spring

One such tale they wove of him, their Son 

When they met at a promiscuous dawn

Tender earth made love to the mystical sky

And they said he was born tiny, a tad too shy

But then came grief, vanity or jealous might

They said he grew by the day and at night 

His heart opened a longing hole heavenwards

And his arms spilled over the earth downwards 

Perhaps he yearned to make a home for three, 

In misty cloud-cysts, but them two, never free

His unborn brothers lie buried round his girth 

Who saw his birth, who knew this worth

He Fujisan, sings their songs from autumn's lengthy tomes

He Fujisan weaves clouds on his untracked mighty stones 

And down below we weave our punctured lives 

into blurred portraits, into false tales of truthful strifes

Fujisan, do you live in those stories of daily deaths

Of your mother's infinite thirst, her never ending quest?