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--- Tale of the Snow Leopard Fastness ---
Inscrutible Ounce -- Silent among Sages,
Sits atop the World, through all of its Ages,
from whence seeing far, so has come to know all,
watching Mortals rise and watching Mortals fall.
Scant few dare to seek, the Truths that do Endure,
past mere Mortal lusts, beyond their false allure,
from the farflung Realms, with their teeming vastness,
few risk Death to reach the Snow Leopard Fastness.
Up and up they climb, for wisdom from The Ounce,
but many do slip, and off sheer cliffs they bounce,
far away is heard, the armed armoured clatter,
as they come to rest, bodies in blood spatter.
While crows pick and tug beneath the Pawprint Stair,
the small-folk gather to loot the corpses bare,
but once in a while, they part with a mutter,
when there are fresh prayer flags a-flutter.
There under their flags, are gathered the hopeful,
who've led mortal lives, heroic through woeful,
an assorted bunch, is the climbing party,
the newbies stand out, all skunked-up and farty.
Flag-summoned they come, the ghostly snow leopards,
to each climber's side, their grey fickle shepherds,
with no backward glance, they guide ever uphill,
testing mortal skill and judging strength of will.
About the Mountain, lies peril for the Stranges,
Warlocks beware that the Nullvola Ranges,
will suffer no spell, sorcery nor magic,
even Dragon-flight comes to ends most tragic.
To survive the Stair, is to reach Luk's Plateau,
an icy field of things half-buried in the snow,
the bigger they are, so the harder they fall,
and nicer the stuff they are likely to haul.
All about great arms, in cold dead hands stuck fast,
unusual items, snow-blessed and sure to last,
panting beside them, climbers rest in the fridge,
ere trudging fearful, straight up Avalanche Ridge.
Three in four younglings fall below Windroar Pass,
while survivors trip on Monkey's balls of brass,
and fall over old armour blown by the wind,
cold wind like a knife, that's been altitude thinned.
As numbers dwindle, so some give in to fear,
wrenched from the fallen, is scavenged lasting gear,
'ere Cats con-descend with them all safe and sound,
so the cowards may, live and brag on flat ground.
Other Cats lead on, imbued with natural grace,
like a snow flurry they scale the Reaper Face,
from great height they watch, the climbers blindly grope,
for the next hard point, to set belaying rope.
Those who do not fall, may reach the Clawhold Shelf,
where leopards nap with bones of a long lost elf,
underneath the shelf, half a league to plummet,
while far above lies the bastion-crowned summit.
A yawn and a stretch, and up the leopards slink,
leaving the climbers, to claw towards the brink,
at the very top, looms dark the Narrow Slot,
Ounces ring its maw, with their paws poised to swat.
At the last threshold, each climber's fate is weighed,
one climber in six underwhelms Eyes of Jade,
with the body pitched head-first through the gap,
to hit far below on the Shelf with a snap.
For those deemed worthy, there is silent regard,
as the climber strains, completing the last yard,
to collapse at last, gasping on warm flagstones,
while all's calm inside, outside the chill wind moans.
The newly blessed body collapsed in a heap,
as soft tones chime it attains the state of sleep,
incense-filled thin air fills the prone body's lungs,
while the Cats retire, to tend fur with their tongues.
(ssshh!)
While the climber sleeps, we'll tell what truth demands,
know now the Fastness, and slopes that it commands,
shift in the Darkness, amidst Armageddon,
no one ever knows just where next they're headin'.
There's nary a hint from the Sage that shape-shifts,
whose Home roams the Realms, like a an errant snow drift,
whether old Human or primordial Cat,
there's only one thing on which she will chat.
If one asks of Power, she'll yawn and look away,
but with climber's names, she'll hold Court for the day,
One-by-one she'll point to all the Folk below,
"Don't know him or her ?... Why that is so-and-so !"
After facing Death to reach the Highest Place,
so the patient learn to Name each waking Face,
Lo, this is the prize, for scaling the World's Roof,
Behold the nature of Long Enduring Truth!
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Zillian