At the top of the mountain
You are the moment before the leap
A symbol suspended
A breath held by the sky
The wind circles you like a question
That has waited centuries to be asked
Your body becomes a threshold
A hinge between what you were
And what you are willing to fall toward
At the bottom of the valley
The earth opens like a mouth of memory
Soil gathers itself into a cradle
A dark grammar of endings
That are not endings
Every handful of dirt is a metaphor
For the selves you’ve outgrown
The ones that cling like old prayers
To the edges of your ribs
Jumping becomes a ritual
Not descent
But surrender
A shedding of altitude
A translation of height into depth
You fall like a symbol dropped
Into the language of the underworld
And the valley receives you
As if you were a seed
Finally remembering its purpose
Burying becomes a second ritual
A way of writing yourself
Into the ground’s quiet scripture
You cover what must be covered
Not to hide it
But to let it transform
In the dark’s slow alchemy
Every burial is a doorway
Every leap is a vow
And so you live between them
The mountain’s sharp breath
The valley’s deep pulse
A figure made of falling and rising
Of burying and becoming
Forever rewriting yourself
In the symbols of height and hollow