There is a slope whereon each is the ibex in its prime,
Alert in resolution and the the master of the climb,
Or like the bounding hare that twists and fleetly turns away,
At home among the tufts and clumps, survivor of the day.
Though culminating high above, resplendent of its kind,
It cannot be the slope is always upwardly inclined,
Its bulk has lasted aeons on an ageless fundament
And those who reach its summit will come down from where they went.
A hill will stand while generations replicate and grow,
And witness from its vantage how the people come and go.
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