Misty mountains mystical, drenched in soulfulness and for the thoughtful ponderer

The achy- feet mountaineer, the wanderlust stricken venturer, the mindless wanderer

Therein amidst the cloudy, ethereally veiled, shrouded, titans of ginormous magnitude

Lies the world, the answer to life, the fulfillment of the quest to overcome his demons

Each step he takes, carefully trekking his way through glaciers rocky edges; the dreary top

Has answers to the question only the seeker knows and soothe to the morally shackled

This is by no means a poem, but it is neither prose. Call it a mystical verse of transcendence

Call it what you will. You cannot deny the rhythm of relatability that pulses through you

The rhythm that calls you out to the mountains and their tempestuous solitude

The rhythm that calls you to the cold, green, forbidden alpines, the wonderstruck conifers

The streams with water so pure that it demeans any other fluid that goes by the same name

The smell of roasted corn, the Pathans with their niswars and their cozy cottages atop hills

And their pretty children playing oblivious to the worries of the city man

The man who sought refuge from the mundaneness of his every day life and answered the call to the mountains

The misty mountains, with their waterfalls and their natural fountains

Admit it, dammit, you want to visit them right now too, don’t you?

I know I want to…