The Song Of Vuori

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  No Houses
A short story written to honor a legendary mountain and its surrounding flora and fauna, situated in Attica, Greece, which explorers there, including me, call Vuori. . Here's to the endless memories and journeys up there! May the mountain reign forever glorious above the city of Athens!

Submitted: August 28, 2016

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Submitted: August 28, 2016

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There is an undeniably rejuvenating effect in the way one recalls glorious days of yore. Days of a time when the legend and the unforgettable were intertwined in the most majestic of ways. A way in which the Soul and Body communicated, spoke to each other in a dialect ununderstandable to any who think and feel with the mind only, and not the heart.
Such is the effect of the mount, called Vuori; Of  how the cypresses rise gloriously behind the dunes on the lower cals of the giant. How the stretches of yew and hickory cover a well-trodden dirt road of unquenched thirsts and sorrowful desires.
The monastery serves as the emotional predisposition; A beacon of what is to come, and of that which will be learnt. Its span expatiates to the Gorge where daemons of a kind unknown dwell at nights. The fields reach the hillsides in a gamut of wildflowers and brushwood leading to the old, undying Long Road. Where the melancholic shepherds lead their flocks under a swollen , tireless, immortal sun.
That is the very same road which takes a traveler through the bowels of the earth, all the way to the stone paths which promise to carry him to an entrancing graveyard under the specter of a bedazzling canopy. This is where the sylvans, the souls and spirits of animals long admitted to the Golden Gates rest, sleeping the eternal sleep.
And thereafter lies the final path of the road, crossing the much visited town the locals call,  Petroupolis. That very path lifts you up in the end of the hiking journey, just below the craggy sides of a top known as none other than Where Partridges Gather. Where the gallinaceous fowl jump up and down on rocks which bare the view of well-ensconced Edens which last forever. It is there that a dreamer finds what he is dreaming, towards an horizon where Rain cannot touch you.
And for those who dare go beyond this spectral empire of abyssal awe, a wide dirt path awaits them like a Victorian carriage driver, to take them to the divine machines; To where man's hand has reached out to establish a deeply etched rapport with the ethers. It takes them to the tops our ancestors have named Zacharitsa, where the metallic antennae look hauntingly at the entirety of the Attica plain. Where foxes and dogs dare not remain, for the fear of humans steals away too much from the vermin Instinct.
Those are the utmost, valiant representatives of a Lore belonging only to this beloved, harrowing Idea. To this stultifying melody played through the strings of a harp in the clouds; It is a Song which speaks to the soul of everyone who knows the secrets Earth is whispering incessantly into our ears. It is a song which reaches deep into the conscience and the gloomy recesses of a bittered mind, looking only to rectify and awaken a broken, dormant Glory. I know not how one might name this Song, but I know we call it, the Song of Vuori.


© Copyright 2017 James Kingston. All rights reserved.

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