Amid the mountain’s slopes, to ponder tombs, I foot
through paths enclosed in understory. Gnarled roots weave
about the rocks that keep the slopes contained around
the platforms; vines draw macrame curtains across
the altars. Olive leaves above screen, spangle sun
upon the scripts engraved in weathered stone, adorned
with shards of clay, palled with shredded fireworks. Provoked
by whistles from the canopy, shadows sashay
on the calligraphy, dyed in hues of eons,
imbued with lichens and mosses. While I regard
these portraits, hikers keep to designated trails,
count steps up granite stairs, take photos with their friends.
The town below is framed in smog, where cranes lift slabs
to high rise skeletons, interred over gridlock.
Absorbed with tending crops, the farmers camped in tarps
or caves near springs ignore, or just don’t see, me. Like
the shrines, the little gardens shelter in the trees,
which drape the dried clay terraces with solemn shades.
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