How many of us must perish walking back and fourth between two mountains…
Each mountain spits fire when it smells the scent we carry by visiting the other mountain. It showers us with fire and thorns to try and get rid of the scent we carry.
But what is a mountain but hard dust? So we don’t wish to crumble underneath feuds and bad blood
And once again “I am Switzerland” I shout to deaf ears.
Still, I proclaim I refuse to choose not to love them all.
convosfromwithin 