Carved for the High Pasture
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I
Stand where the wind sharpens stone
Every monolith is sited by slope, frost line, and the passage of seasons.
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II
Incise only what outlasts memory
Fish, sun, and cattle hide — glyphs chosen to endure a thousand winters.
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III
Leave the face rough, work the edge
Polished corners catch the light; raw basalt keeps the truth.
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IV
Let lichen write the rest
Olive-tan mottling is the mountain's signature, not a flaw to erase.