Ode To The Mountain Wind By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

Ode to the Mountain Wind by Ink Soul

Preface to Ode to the Mountain Wind
by Ink Soul

There are voices in this world that do not speak in syllables, that do not bow to grammar or time. Some voices howl through stone and silence, breathing through the marrow of mountains and the sigh of pilgrims. Ode to the Mountain Wind is a hymn to one such voice.

This poem rises from the sacred altitudes where mortals are humbled and gods whisper in frost. It is carved not from fantasy but from the ancient wind that sweeps Everest and Andes, that passes over shrines, ruins, and the quiet yearning of those who dare to look beyond the veil of the lowlands. This wind has no face, no border, no master—yet it moves empires, shatters illusions, and awakens something buried in every soul.

Here, the poet calls upon the Mountain Wind not just as a force of nature, but as a divine messenger—a wild preacher without form—who speaks through hardship and clarity alike. Through each stanza, the reader is carried from the Himalayas to the Andes, through Sherpa prayers, Incan ruins, and the trembling breath of climbers whose ambition is both beautiful and tragic. You will encounter the unseen histories of monks, warriors, widows, and sages—all remembered in the wind's tireless motion.

Yet, this is no mere travelogue of peaks and legends. The poem becomes an inner map, guiding the reader through the sacred tension between solitude and surrender, ambition and awe, silence and song. It suggests that the Mountain Wind is not only external—it is also the unnamed ache within us all: the longing to ascend, to break, to rise again.

This is a poem for those who have stood on the edge of the self and listened. For those who have felt the untranslatable pull toward something greater than breath. For those who have climbed—not always physically, but emotionally, spiritually, artistically—and returned changed, or not at all.

If you've ever felt the invisible hand of inspiration, the burn of silence before creation, or the thunder of grief that cleanses the heart, you've already met the Mountain Wind.

Let this poem be a companion to that invisible voice. Let it shake the dust from your thoughts, and remind you that even in the stillness of the page, the wind is moving—eternal, wild, and awake.

So read slowly. Breathe deeply. And if, by the final line, your soul feels carved a little deeper, then know: the wind has passed through you, too.

Poem:

Ode to the Mountain Wind by Ink Soul


O sovereign breath from peaks where eagles pray,
You storm the skies in robes of silver-grey.
Above the ice-lit spires where thunder dreams,
You carve through stone with timeless mountain schemes.

From Everest's frozen stairway to the sun,
Where monks chant dawn and days are never done,
You swirl in silence, bold and undefined,
A whisper first, then fury unconfined.

In Andes high, where condors cut the light,
You race through ruins lost to ancient night.
Past temples grown from cactus-rooted grace,
You lift the dust of every vanished face.

You saw the Incas dream, the Sherpas mourn,
You felt their breath in every prayer-born horn.
Where gods once stood in fire and frost and flame,
You carry songs no tongue can dare to name.

Not death, nor time, nor storm can chain your feet,
You laugh where air and sky and silence meet.
You do not wait for men to grasp your hand,
You roam where few dare tread or understand.

You hollow out the secrets of the stone,
You braid the frost with chant and mountain moan.
No king, no map, no word can trace your path—
You answer none, and yet reveal your wrath.

Blow through the soul where shadowed truths abide,
Dispel the fear the valleys try to hide.
Let crumbled empires rest beneath your sweep,
And wake the minds that cowardly would sleep.

Carve from my voice a chisel strong and bright,
Let verse ascend where air thins into light.
O Mountain Wind, eternal, vast and wild—
Speak through the earth as if it were your child.

Teach me the faith the stone and stars have known,
To rise, endure, and sing when left alone.
And when I fall, as every man must do,
Let me dissolve into the breath of you.

O breath unborn, that broke the world in two,
You howled before the clouds had veins of blue.
Before the men of maps had drawn the lines,
You danced on Everest and Andes spines.
No forge could frame you, no book contain,
You rose from mist, from thunder, and from rain.
Before the gods had names in sacred tongues,
Your voice was heard in crystal caverns rung.

From Kailash to Chimborazo's sweep,
You stirred the sleeping lava in its sleep.
The Andes groaned, the Himalayas sighed,
When first you flew with fury, undenied.
O primal wind, whose age no scroll can guess—
You wrote your script in silence and duress.

You pass the prayer flags fluttering in the cold,
Where monks with saffron lips their mantras fold.
The yaks below and stars above the spire
Both tremble when you rise in frigid fire.
Above the clouds, where men can barely breathe,
You howl in tongues no lowland heart can sheathe.

You crown Chomolungma with silver blaze,
And test the soul of all who seek her gaze.
The climber's hope, the pilgrim's holy thread,
You steal their breath and speak with ancient dead.
On Lhotse's ribs and Nuptse's ragged knees,
You roam like ghost-thoughts through the icy seas.

A widow's song, a sherpa's cry unheard—
All echo in your long-forgotten word.
Yet still they climb, though minds and nails turn black—
To chase your myth and never journey back.

Through moss-veiled cliffs and raincloud-pierced domains,
You glide o'er Machu Picchu's sacred plains.
Past llama trails and cactus roots you wind,
Bearing the ghosts of wisdom left behind.
You stirred the lips of sages dressed in gold,
And watched their altars crumble, mute and cold.

You carried fire from Atacama's breath
To where the condor waltzes over death.
In Cuzco's halls, where empires rose and fell,
You whispered truths the priests would never tell.
You sang of maize and sun-born deity,
Of rites dissolved by swords from across the sea.

Still now, by Andes' lakes and starbound spires,
You flicker like forgotten funeral pyres.
No conquistador ever grasped your reign—
You speak in thunder, hunger, frost, and pain.

What voice is yours that haunts the human soul?
You gnaw the walls we build to stay in control.
You do not scream, but we hear you in dreams,
In every avalanche and splitting seam.
You are the restlessness we never name,
The ache that no success or wealth can tame.

You call the child to climb the unknown hill,
To find what hides beyond the silent will.
You break the thoughts that comfort us too long,
And teach the tongue to sing a sharper song.
You press your weight on artists, monks, and kings—
The nameless drive behind all sacred things.

O Mountain Wind, wild preacher without form,
You bless through hardship, doubt, and storm.
You do not gift; you break to heal instead,
And crown the broken with a flame-fed head.

And when the last man leaves the final shore,
When cities burn and silence reigns once more,
You shall remain. The peaks will still arise,
And you will scream beneath unfeeling skies.
But not alone—you'll carry every word,
Of poets, monks, and climbers long interred.

The Andes will still listen. Everest, too,
Will wear your crown of frost and morning dew.
And in some other age or shape or skin,
Another voice shall call you from within.
For though we pass, our longing never dies—
To reach the wind, the stars, the mountain skies.

So let me fall, and let this body fade,
Among the stones your majesty has made.
O Mountain Wind, if I may leave one prayer:
Let my last breath dissolve into your air.