Ballad from the Grey Mountain

January 14, 2010
By Diesel SILVER, West Hartford, Connecticut
Diesel SILVER, West Hartford, Connecticut
6 articles 0 photos 12 comments

I stand on the summit of the grey mountain. With my broken finger, I trace a circle onto the sky. Listening, I close my eyes and wait for the mountain to sing.

I feel the warm rays of the sun kiss my face. I smile, my eyes still closed.

A tear falls onto the ground. The soil turns silver, then melts into mud. As the tear crawls along the mountainside, grass and wildflowers sprout along its tail.

I allow more tears to fall. More grass and wildflowers sprout. Greens, lavenders, and marigolds now blanket the mountain. With my last strength, I raise my hands. Bamboos and trees shoot up from the ground.

I hold my smile. I am tired. I press my hands against the ground. A tree extends its branches and leaves towards the sky. The buds bloom into bouquets of cherry blossoms. The pink petals dance gracefully with the wind.

The grass crinkles against the morning breeze. I hear the chirping of the grasshoppers and the tinkle of the dewdrops. I take off my uniform and lie next to the cherry tree.

I place the gun onto my chest. I hear the flapping of the butterflies. They have returned to the mountain. I feel the gentle gusts from their wings. I see their gold refractions against the sunlight. They land on my arms, both of which I can no longer move.

I lie quietly. The butterflies turn grey. The blossoms turn grey. The bamboos and the trees turn grey.
The grass and the flowers turn grey. The sky turns black. A breeze covers my face with ashes. My eyes open.

The mountain concludes its song. I lie in silence, awed by the beauty of the grey mountain. I close my eyes once more.


The author's comments:
A story about a dying soldier in Vietnam.

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