By Olena Mylobog
Two steps to the dream top. The sun burns unbearably on my skin. The dense, sticky air penetrates my lungs and leaves a scent of bitter wormwood. I struggle with the weight of my body. My heart pounds in my ears.
One more step, and the sky laughs at me. The mountain valley, like a green sea, pulsates in the rhythm of the wind at my feet. The cries of birds are lost in the endless space. A minute of rest, and I’ll be on my way again. To the boundless peak, which melts in the watery veil of sweat-drenched eyes.
Very cool: a little Nietzsche, a little Cummings.
“The mountain valley, like a green sea”
I saw instantly the young shepherd referenced in Zarathustra:
— (“I encountered a young man who looked wearily into the valley” [Thus Spoke Zarathustra, specifically the section titled “On the Preachers of Death”]
The cries of birds are lost in the endless space
(“Then shall i turn my face, and hear one bird/ sing terribly afar in the lost lands” [“It May Not Always Be So; And I Say.”])
Beautifully descriptive.