The mountain calls from its forested walls

Cloudy and grim and gray

The feet that trace the trail o’er its face

Do not know what it wants to say

For the mountain speaks from its forested peaks

To those who listen, and hear

The tales it knows and the secrets it blows

Through the whisper of wind in the ear

And for those who listen the mountain will spin

Tales of a pristine green

Where rivers run clear and the stars are near

And the air is crisp and keen

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But no one cares for the stories it shares

So it looms a lonely soul

The world spins past and its echoes blast

In a search that is never full

Like a sentry it stands in eastern lands

Above the city hum

Like one watching and waiting, in light that is fading

For a friend that never comes

Because for those who listen the mountain will spin

Tales of a pristine green

Where rivers run clear and the stars are near

And the air is crisp and keen

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Tomorrow, my friend. I will come tomorrow.