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The bare black mountains of the sun rear up,
Autonomous
battlements.
They are black from the fire that made them.
Born of a
furnace, they bake unmoved in noon's nuclear heat.
These mountains do not
adorn themselves.
They are self-contained, and need no jewelry of pine and
meadow.
Their face is desolation,
Their crown is burning spikes,
Their
beauty is crag and boulder blasted in the forge.
These are mountains of fire
and jagged edges;
Do not walk here in soft shoes.
