The roof of the earth, the emperor of all mountains,
you stand there, a benevolent force,
your arms spread wide encompassing one tall fortress after another,
standing protectively over the lands north and south,
you are not as foreboding as I had thought.
It’s you, every year thousands of people go to meet,
million others live on the foothills at your feet.
So many others want to conquer you,
they take you for granted, scramble all over,
sometimes even have the temerity to trash you.
What do they know?
These pesky trespassers,
for you are the original warrior,
who in the Mesozoic era,
rose triumphantly from the ancient deep bed of the Tethys sea.
Do the mountaineers know they are on a pilgrimage?
After all, you are the abode of Gods,
where the divinity resides,
and watches us mere mortals
go on with our lives.
But you don’t like to blow your own trumpet,
instead, just stand there serenely.
It’s rarely do we hear when you lost your calm,
and a mountaineer was lost in your snow white arm.
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