Reaching the Gardens

There is a cry floating over
the desert about a weak

mountain that didn’t grow
all the way to the pinnacle

where like amongst a chosen few,
it would have had a pair of wings

rest on its noble back curved in
servitude; the staff of the Prophet

who walked through water
would tap it back alive,

and prayer beads from the holiest
stone would endorse the times

it incant; if none of this helped
it to drink the dew in clouds,

it would pull the corners of its heart
to stretch longer than the ends

of earth and taller than the highest
throne of the Oldest Star, call

the world to bring to it their heaviest
sorrows, and extend its arms

to embrace a fallen destiny;
if none of this brought it a glimpse,

it would walk on dwarf limbs
till the toes fell off from weariness,

yet it would cry like the wail
of a mute to find god’s ears.

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