Climbed the hill.
It was a nothing hill.
An everything hill.
Wind-blown thistles dancing like mourners,
like children.
A thousand years of Time,
of rolling clouds and years,
All religions kneeling to the one faith, Death.
The one binding us all inspite of creed.
Despite our creed. To spite our creed.
And the little white flowers,
like a crown,
or a blushing bride, quivering,
Rooted in the dead.
Roots go down through the dirt,
Through history and the hourglass, tying all things.
I picked them. Pressed them. Kept them.
The flowers of the king,
Growing from the dead.
Went down the hill,
The nothing hill.
The everything hill.
Wind-blown thistles, dancing.
