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Prelude :

A tilde, a rose

A mark of rising

It is on the west

Spine of a diagonal kind

It runs through the streets

Ellipsis of a rigid fabric

It is etched in a silent wool

Spiders diced up and running

Sans web, Sans sunshine

Dried up poisons, dreadful twigs

A visceral life, unfolds in the fork

A minuscule breath, fumes in a desert chest

Nothing to flow, nothing to ebb and elk

Every sky is ripe for a retreat to the mountain

A mountain that spins unto its last

Eclectic :

Height of madness

Hitherto humid and hue

Has a hive to loss

It is neither a beehive nor a volcano

it is just a mountain than spins to exist

It is just a mountain that declines to mourn

Quite inclined to the west wind

It spins past its fiddling valleys

Spinning is an art of vultures

Who watches him from flattened hilltops

Spinning is a defense of the weak

Who can’t burn the chest and break the bones

Spinning is a science of magnets

Who love to pursue polar origins

This mountain spins from its peak

This mountain had a pagan past

When it cherished the prairie flocks

To clear its fuming peaks

Every mountain has a choice

Either to erupt in volcanic genres

Or to spin forever in gyrations

Epilogue :

Death of opinions, dearth of wickedness

Deep down the valleys, docked in yards

Thus the soiled giant was shaken to freeze

None to flock, none to flower, valleys were mute

Mountain was gazing its tilting future

It was slopping and hopping in time

It could sense its clock stopping to gyrate

It could sense its vibrant peaks edging out of time

It was gracious enough not to fall on the chest of its valleys

It could just flatten, flatten and flatten its pinnacles

Loving the valley till the end, it ended up being a hamlet

Wretched and howling, muted and minced

Diced and winking, shivering and crushed

It was just a hamlet, in the center of gravity

And the coming generations will never believe

A spinning mountain ever existed

Neither have it sprout again