The Mountain Speaks

//
1 min read

Editor’s note: The following poem is extracted from Jungle Warfare with the Australian Army in the South-West Pacific (published 1944).

What though the guns, whose shameless mouths
Hurl fierce obscenities of sound
Against my buttressed, sturdy side—
What though the slowly rising tide
Of green-clad men relentlessly
Creeps up — are not these little drops
Within the pool of Time; a dust
Upon the wind of centuries?

Their tracks have ploughed my fecund soil;
My trees they’ve lopped and shorn, my grass
They’ve burnt, or used to roof a hut.
But soon their book of life will shut,
Their little moment pass away,
While I—? The blessing of the rain
Will heal my wounds, and solitude
Reclaim for me what is my own.

“NX19329”

Raised in a home filled with books on Western civilization, P.G. Mantel became a lover of history at an early age. An amateur writer of verse, he makes himself useful as an editor for Men of the West.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Previous Story

Sermon: A Day in the Life of Jesus of Nazareth

Next Story

Oklahoma Is Indian Territory Again

Latest from Culture

Vox Day And 2033

First published in December 2018. As I have written over these past two weeks, I have