Ridges of Thought

I trod blue ridges where old visions gleam,

Where mist like ancient thought begins to rise,

A land half-lost between a mythic dream

With riddles carved beneath unending skies.

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What spirit stirs along that winding height,

Where time lies deep in earth’s old seam?

A hidden flame that kindles through long night,

Yet drifts forever past each mortal scheme.

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These hills have shaped a wisdom all their own,

Free from rigid law or creed confined.

Each turning path, each weather-wearied ground

Becomes a living riddle for the mind.

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A creek speaks through ages as it flows,

Its ancient voice untroubled, fierce, profound.

It asks what every seeking spirit knows—

If truth is lost or ever to be found.

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What truth lies buried deep these mountains keep?

What ancient will compels each heart to yearn?

Does Being wake from some primeval sleep,

Or circle back through paths that never turn?

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Rise, soul, arise where endless horizons call,

Climb thought’s steep path past fear, past fleeting breath.

For wisdom stands beyond each rise or fall,

A blazing song that triumphs over death.

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Thus have these hills through ageless silence taught:

Philosophy burns bright through mortal clay,

A sorrow wrought to light by ceaseless thought,

Eternal fire no darkness can allay.