I slumber on my sacred hill,
you tread on paths forbidden,
and so awakened by your thrill
reveal what long was hidden.

You rest your steps before my gate,
your mind moves on, inquiring;
I lure your soul, yet you must wait
in polar nights, perspiring.

Behold my signs of ancient rite
denying you safe passage.
What if all purpose of this site
is in your crypt my message?

Which secrets hidden under snow?
What dwells beneath my cellar door?
Are you not curious to know?
Is this not what you came here for?

Dear traveller, woe unto you!
You are condemned to haunt me.
I will not yield my essence; true –
my purpose ne’er to daunt thee.

I hibernate. Your time will come
to pass when you and I are one.

   ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
Note: inspired by an old house which I often pass along my walks, with a reminiscence of the beginning of “The Graveyard Book” by Neil Gaiman. I wonder if you can feel a glimpse of non-dual kafkaesqueness towards the end (or better yet, its resolution?), which I didn’t see coming until I wrote the last lines. Apparently the power of the unconscious serves a larger purpose than to capture the mystical ambiance. I hope it succeeds in both quests.