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Neither Modern, Nor Post

I stand in the valley.

On one side, I see the mountains where my father has lived. On the other side I see the mountains intended for my children’s journeys.

I see the mountains where my father has lived.

I see on my father’s mountains lush fields of irrigated crops, yet many are hungry.

I see on my father’s mountains roads lined with well decorated dwellings. Axioms hang on well tended plaster. Despite their air, a multitude are sharp and dangerous. Family are as strangers, picket fences are as ramparts, feet are as miles.

I see on my father’s mountains earthen cathedrals, which rise into the sky. Stone upon stone, they ascend, saying to the mountains that shelter them, “we are greater, and we will not be subdued.”

I see on my father’s mountains many who have fought, and struggled, to protect.

Those are my father’s mountains.

I stand in the valley.

I see the mountains intended for my children’s journeys.

I see on my children’s mountains many standing, but very few taking any steps. Emptiness is their footing. Charity has no forfeit. Virtue no sacrifice.

I see on my children’s mountains, cottages and castles. Few are homes, size is irrelevant.

I see on my children’s mountains, gatherings of men, where many speak but few listen, all wanting to be heard above the other. They praise themselves, and say “we are not our fathers.” They do not know their fathers.

I see on my children’s mountains lives lived with honesty and passion.

I stand in the valley.

I stand in the valley, I despise the impersonal cathedrals.

I stand in the valley, I weep for those who have many stories yet have no history.

I am my father,

I am my children,

I am both mountains, I am neither mountain.

I am the valley.