From the Highest Peak

From my peak, I look down into the valley below,
where at the foot of the mountain leans a lake,
blowing as the wind whips its face across the glass waters.
I live on a mountain, but my mind is often in the valley,
where sheep come to drink from the lake that fills
with rain water and run off from the mud of my mountains roots.
I think the clouds roll faster over if I stare at the valley below,
where I see the shapes of shadow animals racing the green turf.
The race is exciting and moves my day along.
Days on the mountain move slowly by, not because they are boring,
but because I am so close to the sky. You don't notice the change
in astronomy from the mountain like you do from the ground.
Sometimes being too close is a curse that man alone must know.
On the valley floor, they wish to join me on my mountain
so they could see the land below, but on this mountain,
sometimes I wish I were below,
so I could see the sky above with more clarity and love.
But here I will stay and here I will cry as time holds me green
and dying though I sing in my chains like the sea.