On the inaccessible Peak, there must be Flowers
On the inaccessible peak,
There must be flowers—
Soft as whispers, bright as stars,
Untouched by earthly hours.
No hand may pluck their Grace,
No foot may mar their place—
On the inaccessible peak,
There must be flowers.
Oh, the seekers come and go,
Clutching truths they’ll never know—
But the summit, cold and deep,
Guards its bloom in sacred sleep.
Veils of mist obscure the climb,
Fate selects the few to find.
What is pure will not be seen,
By the eyes that crowd between.
On the inaccessible peak, there must be flowers,
White as the dawn, untouched by hours.
No voice to name them, no step to mar,
They gleam like vows on heights afar.
On the inaccessible peak,
There must be flowers—
Untouched by the seekers who climb,
Unspoiled by hours.
Where no voice calls,
And no foot treads at all,
On the inaccessible peak,
There must be flowers.
And if one soul, by Grace, should rise,
They’ll find the bloom… with chastened eyes.
They kneel in the temple of silence,
Where echoes dare not break the air—
The chosen, the cold, and the blameless,
Alone are permitted there.
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