Men are not mountains.
It is a farewell in Russia. Because mountains, once parted, never meet again. Humans might.
Mountains do not die. Humans do.
And in the long, long dance of the continents—in the rise and fall of aeons of stone and flame—it is possible for mountains to meet again. Possible. Perhaps. Someday. There is a chance.
And at this moment I wish…oh, how I wish…that men were mountains.
I would stand unmoving, heart untouchable, roots unreachable, ancient and lonely through all my days. I would.
I would give up the motion of heart and breath and limb for the chance—the chance of a chance—that I had not lost forever the ones I love.