The Mountain
looms up
beyond the horizon.
The wasteland howls.
The chaff is driven
here
and there.
The seed falls to the ground
and dies,
but is not shaken.

The sapling stretches up,
planted by a stream
flowing from
The Mountain,
which looms a little closer.

The tree forgets the howling
when the shadow of
The Mountain
falls across its leaves.
But the chaff is always driven
here
and there.
The Mountain
looms closer,
but still beyond the horizon.
The Day which no one knows
is nearer.

The chaff whips around
in a fury,
scoffing all Fixed Intruders.
But the tree grows
and bears fruit.
And the coming
Mountain
feeds it with its glad stream.

The Holy Mountain
leaps upon the wilderness.
The tree
is invited to take root forever
upon Its slopes.
But the chaff is blown away
by the trumpet blast.