I come alone to this barren mountain
No scenic view, all bleak and bald.
The top is bare of trees
And human traces.
I wander the slopes distracted
And listless. Might as well go down.
Suddenly, on the shadowed side
I see something,
A spot of dull-white on loose rock
A thrown-away condom
Smudged with dust, drawing my eye,
Translucent and finely made.
It stands for love. On a certain day, a certain month,
Love was made on this barren mountain.
The bliss of that loving couple
Was not barren on this barren mountain,
No more than in bed.
Now that I think of it, the world
Has something worth being around for, like this barren
mountain.
While the sun is still up,
I squat on the slope
And ply the trade of archaeology.