For many years, she searched,
Searched to find the mountain ,
The mountain of victory, the one that she set out ,
In search of a vision, a perspective from atop.
One night, tired and weary, she cried out,
In total abandon, to end the climb
A sore heart that never saw the promises realized ,
She wept in the forest , amongst Kapoc and Fig.
The thick wilderness in the semi-tropical darkness,
‘Enough, enough’ she cried falling to the ground,
She could not climb anymore, her knees hurt,
Leaches feeding on her gentle toes.
The red flag she had, the one that she made when she was five,
She let go of the little water she had, the thick jacket ,
The back- pack, that was too heavy
But not this red flag, the one she stitched as a child.
She could not climb anymore,
The climb was harsh and then there was…
A total revelation in astonishment ,
She was flabbergasted, the snowcapped hilltops.
Has she made it yet?
The ranges of mountains, the forestry highlands,
The magnificence of the whole terrain ,
Oh what a sight!
She readily put the flag down,
She had made it to the finish line ,
The victory post, the one to mark the conquest ,
A day awaited so long.
But then, it began, a thick black smoke,
A whirlwind hurdling from the earth,
Now surrounding her, to suck her into its eye,
The pull from the angry sky.
But she held strong, to her victory post,
The flag that still stood upright,
Then in a moment, it was gone, all gone
Oh what a fright!
The air settled, the leaf infused in the sparkling dew.
Beguiled, enticed, and captivated.
She began to weep, clutching the roots of the eucalyptus,
A triumphant sobbing echoed.
The ground split so the streams could flow,
The wild made anew, the chirping of the Fantails and Buttonquail,
The deer hurrying in swiftness to graze beside the waters,
As the rocks sang aloud, a symphony orchestra in the background.
And in a zoomed- in image of the foothills
She saw in a little house, then a little room, then a little desk,
A children’s storybook, a girl with her little friends,
A picture of them climbing a well- manicured path up the hill.
Like a tale with happily- ever- after’s,
Like most of the stories they wrote,
But in a moment, her eyes were back in the mountains
The mourning of an animal; a wake- up call for the sleep.
The doe birthed her young, a moment of joy and pain,
Then a jubilant flight of the Harpy eagle,
Celebrating the birth, death, and survival ,
Perhaps she should warn the little girls.
That stories can be happy but not happily-ever-after.
That happy stories are crafted in the climb, the ascent scaling up,
The occasional falls and being lost,
That ‘happy’ is in the trek through the indefinite ride,
‘Happy’ is in the courage to take on the unfamiliar,
In the mystery of the subterranean unknown,
Yes, she should tell the little girls,
That people wrote tales only for fairies and never for their own.