You rise, a cathedral of frozen despair,
where silence worships itself.
Your slopes, those marble shrouds of the world,
conceal no mercy, only the slow devotion
of death polishing its altar of ice.
Your winds chant psalms of extinction,
they strip the soul bare
until it gleams like bone beneath a dying sun.
I hear within that whiteness
the laughter of gods who have forgotten creation.
Spectral monarch,
your glaciers crawl like old regrets,
cracking the heart of the earth,
devouring memory, erasing the fragile breath
of every fool who dreamed of touching eternity.
Your peaks are not heaven but its absence.
Each dawn that crowns you bleeds,
each sunset is a slow immolation.
The sun adores you
and dies daily at your feet.
What secret intoxication lures men upward,
toward your white delirium?
Perhaps the wish to vanish nobly,
to dissolve into a grandeur
that no life could ever equal.
And I, shivering pilgrim,
write this with the ink of frost,
knowing your beauty will one day
call me as it called the others
to sleep beneath your crystalline curse.