Another 'promt' poem from that workshop.

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Songs of an ancient past
Sounding as though they grate the throats
Of their retellers.

Cities of prayer, silent
save for the murmurs
of robed acolytes,
Are insignificant
When compared to the stone cathedrals
That tower over them,
Stealing the cries of the eagles,
Singing them back and forth
Among themselves forever

Bitter winds and cruel winters
Endured with patience
Waiting for the emergence of sweet spring
Halos of wispy clouds
Encircling the citadels
Erupting with devastating violence.

Jagged peaks, glittering white,
Blind those silly enough to look
While mountain goats make mockeries
Of even the most sure-footed villager.