Upon the spine of mountains old,
Where cliffs wore crowns of ash and gold,
A wounded river, fierce and wide,
Tore through the valley’s stony side.
It roared like armies locked in hate,
Like drums of wrath before cruel fate;
Its foaming tongue devoured the light,
A silver serpent birthed of night.
Across that torrent, thin and frail,
A fallen tree stood pale and stale—
A narrow bridge of bark and bone,
A trembling path for one alone.
Then from the east, with coal-black beard,
A mighty goat in pride appeared;
His iron hooves struck sparks from stone,
As though the mountain were his throne.
And from the west, through mist and breeze,
There came another, white as peace;
His eyes held calm autumnal skies,
The hush of prayer, the depth of wise.
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Midway they met.
The bridge grew still.
The river sharpened for the kill.
The heavens hushed their winds above;
Even the eagle paused its glove.
Horn stared at horn.
Eye locked with eye.
Two stubborn storms beneath one sky.
The world itself seemed poised to see
Which pride would claim supremacy.
Below them churned the ravenous flood,
A mouth insatiable for blood;
Each wave rehearsed a drowning hymn,
Each rock a skull, death dark and grim.
One shove—
one rage-filled reckless thrust—
And both would feed the river’s lust.
Ah! How like men they seemed that day:
Both certain they deserved the way.
Both armed with righteousness and flame,
Both prisoners of the word “my claim.”
For pride is but a blinded king
Who strangles peace with golden string;
It builds its palace high and vast,
Yet lays its cornerstone on glass.
Long stood they there in silence bound,
While danger circled all around.
The bridge creaked low like ancient grief,
A prophet warning unbelief.
Then softly spoke the goat in white,
Whose soul preferred the dawn to fight:
> “Brother, this bridge is far too thin
For war to pass and peace to win.
If horn meets horn in furious breath,
The river shall inherit death.
Therefore, let wisdom bend—not break.
I shall lie down for both our sake.
Step gently over me and go,
So neither feeds the waves below.”
The black goat trembled at the word.
No thunder struck—yet thunder stirred.
For kindness, when the world expects war,
Shakes the proud heart far deeper more.
His fury fell like autumn leaves;
The soul grows quiet when grace breathes.
And shame, like winter rain, descended
Upon the rage he had defended.
Then low he bowed his horned head:
> “Today, true strength in white is dressed.
The mountain’s greatest is not he
Who conquers all—but conquers me.”
So down the pale goat gently lay
Upon the bridge of fear and spray.
The black goat crossed with tender tread,
As though on sacred scripture read.
One careful hoof.
Then one once more.
No victor marched. No loser swore.
Only two souls, by wisdom led,
Refused to let their pride see red.
And when at last the crossing passed,
And both stood safe on stone at last,
They turned beneath the silver sky
Where evening hung its lantern high.
No trumpet sang.
No crowd proclaimed.
No medals shone. No banners flamed.
Yet something greater crowned the air:
The silent victory of care.
The river still roared wild below,
As rivers of this world shall flow;
For hatred never fully dies,
It waits in nations, hearts, and eyes.
Yet stronger still than rage or sword
Lives one small, often ignored word:
Yield.
Not the yielding born of fear,
Nor cowardice that disappears,
But yielding born from vision clear—
The strength to hold another dear.
For sometimes he who kneels the low
Is tallest of all men we know.
The oak may boast its mighty pride,
Yet storms uproot its stubborn side;
The humble reed, though bent by air,
Still whispers green when none are there.
O wandering world of horns and haste,
Where ego leaves so much laid waste,
Learn from two goats upon one tree
The costly art of harmony.
For peace is not the weak man’s song;
It is the work of souls made strong.
And often Heaven’s brightest dove
Descends where pride makes room for love.
