The Craggy Rock Face

I am the crooked and craggy rock face, perched high atop the ridge.

My old eyes scan the vista below, silently reminiscing of the eras and epochs numbered many; yet I remain.

My voice only speaks when the wind whistles through the deep crevices of my stone-face.

Be silent, and you shall hear me recount the tales of the changing seasons, which are more frequent than the flakes of snow at wintertime.

For eons. I have seen all.
Now I see you.

My voice sounds the alarm, to those who may hear.
The world is fast-changing.
The teat which you have plundered for sustenance now runs dry.

The sun, whose rays raise your crops, now burns too hot, scorching my forests and your fields.

The winds, which brought the snows and rains of season, now carries acrid dust.

The clouds, which brought shade and relief vanish in the sweltering heat of your making.

This world is now a raped whore,
and you turn to her wanting more.

You are a time and a season,
take now and for no reason.

Your dust will be all you can claim,
and yet my face will always remain.