Whose footprint, pray, 
adorns this peak 
adored from day
lost still to pique 
mankind — to find
who down to crown 
stepped, whom all seek: 
name none may say
 — nay, if stones speak! — 
Of hordes their way 
there wend — yet mend 
them not — their lot
to fall short, prey
to thought’s doubts bleak; 
mundane pride weighs 
their minds low, wreaks 
havoc — makes mock
of wraith-like faith
which, baffled, leaks
e’en dregs away;
lost, save fate freak
turns: oft though they 
may make the trek,
ill come — at home, 
stronghold, best stay
than grow sapped, weak 
higher they stray
 — risk best left meek 
pilgrim — victim
of whims — to him
who other cheek
turned, towards ray
of sun: light’s peek
past clouds of gray — 
hope’s scope full ope
 — blest art such hearts —