Two hundred and seventy three stone steps
Cut into a curving path up
The side of the mountain
With rich, verdant weeds and
Violet, bell shaped flowers
Tickling ankles and hanging
Heavy with scent
On the edges of the path
At the peak
An ancient, striated
Stone juts out
Large enough for one
To sit and contemplate
What small creatures we are
And how easy it would be
To fall from such a height
Onto the mossy ruins
Below
