The Undiscovered Land (Poetry)

There is no hurry — they’ve been here some time,
waiting in the quiet folds of mist,
these mountains, undiscovered and unclimbed,
dense forests gathered round their awesomeness.

Ever since the planet heaved and boiled
and seas were born and liquid rock congealed,
they’ve stood and watched, their pristine slopes unsoiled,
their guardian peaks still secret, unrevealed.

They live in dreams — glimpsed only from afar —
these ghostly lands unpainted and unmapped,
much further on, beyond the last pale star
where no one’s been — no footprint and no track.

They feel the same hot sun and moon’s cool light,
their days and nights are not unlike our own,
but they have air more pure and snow more white
than any place that most of us have known.

Some traveller will find them — climb a hill
and see a panorama that unrolls
before him, lying undisturbed until
it beckons him and lures his wandering soul.

He’ll stamp his mark upon it — make bold claim,
and scale those heights, immaculate and sheer,
he’ll conquer them and call them by his name,
but there’s no rush — they’ve waited all these years.