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A man is a mountain.

He is a bed for weary minds.

A ladder for souls to climb.

A haven for all the forsaken.

He is a pilgrimage.

A rite of passage.

A wayfinder to God.

Covered in snow,

Covered in grass,

He grows in mass,

Over time and lifetime.

You push he stays,

You strike he lays,

You lash he forgives,

You curse he laughs,

You leave he remains,

You come he welcomes,

You belittle, he smiles.

For what does a mountain have to prove?

He has no scale to measure,

No eyes to compare,

No ego to defend,

If you ask him what he is,

He will reply.

I am the rocks, the dirt, the air

and all the life in between.

I am the first to greet the sun.

I kiss the moon goodnight,

Use the clouds as my clothes,

Wear the stars as adornment,

Sing through eagle’s cries,

And never,

Ever,

Do I hide my size.

A mountain is a man.

MadMenRadio.com