Drink lava, said the big hill to the little hill that was a church.
Be blessed, said the little hill to the big hill which was an ogre who forgot to give Praise.
The sea of trees between them said nothing, waiting to see what occurred.
You may not climb me, said the white cone whose icy powder expanded those regions.
You may dance to our singing on special days, said the church, we perform with the skill we have in part so that you may swell and rise.
Drink lava, said the tall hill, you’re only fooling yourself with the kindness of your gestures.
We have plenty of fools here, confessed the little church, and we do sometimes fool ourselves, but we try and try again each day to right ourselves.
You think I have hell itself in the heart of my belly, said the giant living rock.
I know we once did, said the holy hill.
You think I don’t know how you imagine yourself, grandiose and privileged, compared to me?, said the fortress of endless stone.
We don’t think of ourselves much lately, said the miniature version of that upturned heaving of planet.
Drink lava, said the mountain. Drink lava and die.
If I die I will yet live, said the little hill, but I’d near give that up, if only you, such a majestic piece of the Creator’s Strength, would change your song today and join me in a great and glorious Praise to our Architect.
You are a cunning little hill, said the mountain. You have almost convinced me. I almost believe you are sincere. But would make me something less in my own eyes. So . . .
I know, said the little hill, drink lava and die.
