You entreated the mountain to yield—
to unfurl its edges,
to cleave a gentler way.
But the stone held firm,
aloof in its stillness.

Yet you climbed.

With breath drawn from silences,
you laid your hands upon the cold, uncarved face,
gathering grace in each unpromising crevice,
measuring ascent by faith rather than ease.

Hope flickered beside you—
not ablaze,
but tender,
sheltered in cupped palms
and carried upward through the dusk.

The mountain did not bend.
But you became
what the path required—
sure-footed,
unshaken.

And now,
when others stand beneath that ancient hush,
they will see what heaven has long beheld:

The mountain moved.
Not in the earth beneath your feet—
but in the quiet rising of your soul.

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