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Thunder roars between the sharp rocks, rolls and unrolls from ravine to ravine, grazing the dark trees and scaring the herds.
Up there, beyond the pastures There is a man on a summit. Strangely, he does not look at the sky of anger which swells and falls, silent surging, on the peaks that are so many impotent reefs. No he is not worried by the rumbling sound that shakes the stone giants.
He looks down, nostalgic at the bottom of an invisible valley that a mask too modest hides, like everything that is below.
It is there where so many dream to be in the open air, but the ascent of the summits in the mist is reserved only for a few fools who know that up there the stones slip and the fall, has no mercy, no forgiveness.
Then, gently, in a heavy silence disheartened by ever more threatening thunder and some cries of animals, he turns around, and descends with caution, but as a man who knows his way. He knows that time is lacking, yet he can not help but stop to admire the higher summits that are more and more caught by the clouds of anthracite that fall like prey.
He can not help listening to the violent rolling of the thousand drums of the heavens, which bounces on each abrupt wall, amplifies itself,
But dark spots at first scattered, then more and more clenched appear on the gray rock, and soon they are torrents of water that the clouds pour, swept by a relentless wind that whistles with rage as it sneaks between the peaks , cheeky peaks that hope to decelerate the sabers of icy air.
The man accuses the first gust and sits on a flat rock. He smiled under his old washed-out hood: this is not the first time he has been trapped, but he can not help but be fascinated. He knows that to go forward would be to commit suicide, for the stones on which the water slides offer no resistance to his soles, though adapted.
But his smile soon vanished, as water infiltrates through his many layers of warm clothes he bought through his travels.
The thunder growls more beautifully, the bursts of light come closer, they respond, in an ever more jerky speech.
The music of the rain accompanies them, like thousands of percussions played by demented musicians.
In front of him, the tower of Babel of rocks and pines becomes only more mysterious. She does not show her face, and her body is blurred by torrential rain. The imagination of man flies away, he sees creatures of fright fly away from concealed caves.
He imagines an unnamed fear hidden in the clouds, he thinks that maybe up there, The Sun he has never seen.
That he will never see, for below are the Eternal Mists that cover everything, hide everything.
He says that he loves his life as a traveler, as a merchant, that for decades he has been useful and will have seen wonders.
Stirred up admiration and jealousy, had gratitude while keeping the simplicity of his life. He loves his world, he would like to be part of this terrifying mountain of terror which, although immobile, imposes respect, fear also.
Then, slowly, he gets up. From his beard flows the water that seeps into his frozen chest. Folded under the wind he ascends, very slowly, taking care of his feet as during his first ascent. At times, a powerful burst makes him jump a meter or two, but he expects it, and his gloved hands save him. Then it's the summit. He is standing again, between the Mists from below and the infernal clouds from above. Everywhere around him, the celestial fire is unleashed, his ears buzz because of the rumbling, the whistling and the percussions.
He is happy. He looks again at the mountain, he would like to be part of it. He closed his eyes, and gently, as he would stroke with a finger the curves of a woman,
he puts his foot on a stone too slippery ...