The Rose of the Mountain

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Hasroun

Hasroun lies in the mist, serene and calm it hangs on the cliff. A village all forgotten, somehow time had missed. Slightly hazy in the mist, its red rooftops peeking out in between the trees that ignore them, like poppy flowers tall and straight they peep out of this colossal surrounding of mountains and cliffs that seem to embrace them.

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The Land of Fruits and Vegetables

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The light dusting of snow on the roofs and on the leaves of confused budding plants lightly fall through sepia skies. The otherworldly glow of the final throes of a dying sunlight lights up this sleepy town. In summer the air is crisp and nature revels in its expected garden state while in winter thick snow covers the hills with a hand of white as skiers fill its ski slopes gliding from where the air is icy and brittle and serenity flows calmly unnoticed to where mechanical lifts are busy getting people from one place to another, two separate worlds a couple of minutes apart.

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“Heyshlee Barbara”

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“Barbara the beautiful

Had praise of lute and pen:

Her hair was like a summer night

Dark and desired of men.

Her feet like birds from far away

That linger and light in doubt;

And her face was like a window

Where a man’s first love looked out.

Her sire was master of many slaves

A hard man of his hands;

They built a tower about her

In the desolate golden lands,

Sealed as the tyrants sealed their tombs,

Planned with an ancient plan,

And set two windows in the tower

Like the two eyes of a man…”

(The Ballad of St. Barbara by Gilbert Keith Chesterton)

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