History carves my sinews and hews my spine.
My menhir-body, my storybook of rock,
Speaks of the long fight. See my shoulders
And their scars, their battered stone edges;
They are sturdy footing on which to stand.
A fire-heart warms my earthen hands:
Saplings grow in the loam, seedlings sprout.
Magma-veined, spitting lava, I still rise
And will not fall. Heed my fury,
For I am one small mountain in a range
Stretching from the present to eras past.
Battles come and go; we remain.
Forests on our flanks, bears in our palms,
We will always be wild.
