On the mountain ridge, I place my thoughts— wind-carved, like runes in granite caught. Each breath a hush of ancient names, each silence set with ember-flames.

The sky leans close with cobalt eye, where crows write spells across the sky. I do not speak; the stones have lore— they know the storms I’ve faced before.

A scarred horizon, wild and wide, and still I stand, and will not hide. For in this height, my heart recalls the freedom found where silence falls.