I’m tired and it’s late at night.
A picture of a mountainside
Makes me want to cry.
Your fingerprints, your handiwork
You molded every point and nook
Your paintbrush everywhere I look
If this is what your hands created,
How much greater was the conception?
How much greater before it was polluted?
How can man match such majesty?
We’ll never get to replicate
What only you’re able to make
Your heavenly columns heave up from the earth
And only earth; there is only so much earth
But you manage to fill it with newfound turfs
When will I have seen every vista to be seen?
Is there no end to this gloriously tangible dream?
These playgrounds of clouds, and horizon-knit seams
And the sunlight’s thin beams
Combed by jagged rock peaks
And all under your feet
And these stairways to skies
And these icy-blue tides
With a pine-needle hide
I’m dreaming, oh, I’m dreaming
Don’t these vistas leave you screaming?
Are you beating? Are you breathing?
Are you fly