Through the blinding swirl of Everest’s white, A traveler walks in perpetual night. With a steady staff and a heavy pack, He leaves a lone trail on the frozen track. He feels the sharp bite of the altitude’s chill, Ascending the slope of the treacherous hill.
But tucked in his burden, wrapped cold in the steel, Is a terror his fingers can touch but not feel. A relic of valleys where green turned to red, A sleeper awake in the land of the dead. The blind man steps forward, his spirit sublime, While carrying, silent, a buried dead land mine.