Worn by the road, the weary travelers come, Out of the biting sleet and winter drum. They seek a sanctuary through the hall, Where shadows lengthen on the timber wall. Above their heads, in quiet majesty, She marks their stumbling strides and sets them free: A refuge carved of gold and fractured white, Offering shelter through the bitter night. Drawn by the bow, hammered on the wire, Veins of bright amber and unyielding fire. Under her wings where the wanderers rest, The vigil is kept at the keeper's behest. Curled at her core, untouched by rain or frost, Lies the primeval treasure of the lost: A pearlescent egg of pure quartzite stone, Encircled by her talons on the throne. Her tail forms a cradle, unmoving and deep, A vessel of life in an unbroken sleep. Let storms beat the roof and the dark timber groan, No shadow shall breach what she claims as her own. The mountain has a heart that beats beneath the stone, A fortress for the fragile, the weary, and alone! Mallets strike like sudden hail across the ringing wire, Bowed silk weeps an ancient song to feed the hidden fire! Though tempest winds may tear the world apart, Unshaken stands her watch—the mountain has a heart! The wanderers lay down their packs on the floor, Their heavy boots silent beside the locked door. She breathes in the frost from the coats that they wear, And exhales a quiet that softens the air. No fierce, biting flame to consume or to burn, Just patient endurance at every trail's turn. She shields every dreamer who enters the room, An unyielding bulwark against the gray gloom. Drawn by the bow, hammered on the wire, Veins of bright amber and unyielding fire. Under her wings where the wanderers rest, The vigil is kept at the keeper's behest. Two sacred duties her talons hold tight: The cradle of dawn and the watchman of night. One eye on the doorway where tired feet tread, One wing curved around the unhatched oval bed. Gold leaf catches light from a flickering flame, Older than kingdoms and older than fame. The egg remains warm in the crook of her breast, While beneath her tall perch, the pilgrims find rest. The mountain has a heart that beats beneath the stone, A fortress for the fragile, the weary, and alone! Mallets strike like sudden hail across the ringing wire, Bowed silk weeps an ancient song to feed the hidden fire! Though tempest winds may tear the world apart, Unshaken stands her watch—the mountain has a heart! Now strike upon the steel and let the silk strings cry! A sanctuary forged between the earth and sky! The wanderers awaken, their courage made whole, The sacred egg glowing with life in its soul! No blade can divide them, no night tear apart The sacred preserve where the mountain has a heart! Has a heart...
