Poetry

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Huddled deep in the endless wood,
A figure of ages and evil stood,
A festival flow of yellows and red,
Waits for the world of slumber shed.
And the children like ravens cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

Thunder rode the starlit graves,
Rattling chains of the child slaves,
With glittered eyes a hope of grace,
Etched in blood across their face.
And through mud and puddle they cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

Sands heavy and burning blew astray,
Tearing shriveled hope into decay,
But still they wandered relentlessly,
Through threads of a torment tapestry.
And though peace was close behind they cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

Such eager and youthful souls delight,
Like pebbles they wobble in dream tonight,
In breezes of silver the cottonlace shade,
A handful of trees with a buttonleaf blade.
But past sweet winds their echoes cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

Far ahead a shape of gnarled stone,
Hewn like amber in obsidian bone,
Inside its halls the children chattered,
Beating breasts so bruised and battered.
And around the haunted edge they cry
Mr Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

A passage grim and full of grief,
Wound slow its way to heights relief,
Behold they come unto his test,
And soon make way to final rest.
Now bitter with ice and fear they cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go!

He takes their hands yes still alive,
And one by one they take the dive,
Not scream nor wailing fills the deep,
For all soon awaken from their sleep.
And each in confusion remembers his cry
Mr. Woe! Mr. Woe! To the Mountain we go...

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