The playful wind blows over the mountain tops, caressing the hills with deeply passionate effort, careful not to miss a spot.
The trees quiver as the breeze rushes through, shaking their leaves with ecstatic pleasure, as only the wind can bring.
The mountain stands indifferent to the wind, indifferent to the perfect pleasure the wind brings, standing in its indignation, it is hard and cold, and yields not to the wind.
The wind, tries as it does, to bring the fullness of joy to the mountain.
The mountain is steadfast, and cares not about the efforts of the wind, the mountain wants only to be that which fate has brought upon it.
The wind, determined to bring happiness to the mountain, never ceases, except to rest and ponder the stubbornness of the mountain.
At the sight of the mountain’s solitude, the sorrowful rain cries hard and deeply soaks the mountain from its top to its bottom, flooding the earth with rivers and waterfalls.
The mountain moves not, cares not, responds not, agrees not
Neither the wind nor the rain can bring the mountain to joy
But the mountain, remaining indifferent, unwillingly concedes to shed some of its form, to the force and worth of the sorrowful rain and the playful wind.
The wind and the rain have their effect on that inner core, that heart of the mountain, by slowly taking away from the mountain their just deserves, until the mountain is no more a mountain, but apart of the wind and the rain.
The mountain is now free, free to fly with the wind, fall with the rain, and run with the waters
The strongest and most stubborn of mountains are taken away by the playful wind and the sorrowful rain, though the mountain resists to the very end, stubbornly insisting on its own fate