POEM - Chomolungma: Mother Of The Sky

Not built, but breathed, from chaos’ forge,

A titan born where continents collide.

The primal roar, a seismic surge,

Lifted this sovereign, stony-eyed,

Against the blue. Time, patient, vast,

Carved fluted ice, a frozen sea,

Where seracs gleam like amethyst glass,

And glaciers groan eternally.

This is no hill, no simple mound,

But Earth’s own rib, exposed and stark,

The highest altar ever found,

Where daylight bleeds into the dark.

She wears the name the Sherpas gave –

Chomolungma, Mother of the Sky.

Her slopes hold spirits, fierce and brave,

Where snow-lunged dzo and eagles fly.

Prayer flags, wind-whipped, in earnest plea,

Paint frozen passes with their hues,

Carrying mantras, endlessly,

For those who dare the thinning blues.

The Icefall looms, a shattered maze,

A shifting, groaning, crystal hell,

Reflecting dawn’s uncertain blaze

Where hidden chasms mutely swell.

Here, mortal skill meets fragile chance,

On ladders strung across the deep,

A slow, suspended, deadly dance

While ancient ice secrets keep.

Then, higher still, the Western Cwm,

A silent, wind-scoured, sunken mile,

A crucible where senses numb,

Beneath a merciless, clear smile.

The Lhotse Face, a steep incline,

A wall of ice and riven rock,

Demands a focus serpentine,

Each axe-hold firm, each breath a shock.

The Balcony, the South Col’s edge,

A frigid threshold, stark and bare,

Where climbers huddle on a ledge,

Suspended high in freezing air.

Below, the world curves, vast and dim,

A tapestry of cloud and stone;

Above, the final, daunting rim,

Where breath itself turns hard as bone.

The Summit Ridge! A knife-edged spine,

Exposed, where jet-streams scour and keen.

One slip, one faltering step’s design,

Plummets to where no light is seen.

The Hillary Step, a frozen gate,

Now altered, yet the challenge holds –

The final, steep, precarious slate

Before the crown the planet molds.

And then… the top. The world’s white crest,

A dome of wind-sifted diamond dust.

Exhaustion wars with wild unrest,

In triumph mingled deep with trust.

Flags snap in air too thin for sound,

A panorama none forget –

The curvature of Earth profound,

Where sun and stars in glory set.

But look beyond the fleeting prize,

Beyond the summit’s icy glare.

See discarded tanks, where ambition dies,

And frozen forms in vacant stare.

The "Rainbow Valley," stark and bright,

A testament to costly dreams,

Where hubris met the mountain’s might

In unforgiving, icy streams.

The whispers rise – not wind alone,

But voices lost in ’96’s storm,

A chilling, universal moan,

Of human frailty taking form.

The mountain tolerates, it seems,

The ants that crawl upon its face,

Reflecting back our desperate schemes

Against its monumental grace.

Now queues ascend the final slope,

Roped like beads on abacus wires,

Clutching thin hope, a fragile rope,

Fulfilling purchased, packaged fires.

Base Camp, a village, transient, loud,

With tents like bright, discordant blooms,

Where aspiration forms a crowd,

And altitude dispels the glooms.

Yet Sherpa backs, resilient, strong,

Bear burdens up the lethal trail,

Their silent courage, lifelong,

Makes others’ fleeting dreams prevail.

Their mountain, still, beneath the tread

Of countless boots from distant lands,

Holds ancient wisdom in its head,

And understands… and understands.

For she was old before the Nile,

Before the Pyramids sought the sun.

She watched the continents compile,

Saw countless human ages run.

Her glaciers shrink, her bedrock shows,

A stark reminder, clear and grim,

Of warming currents that dispose

Of icy vestments, limb by limb.

She is no trophy, cold and still,

But sentinel of shifting time.

A presence that can awe and kill,

Beyond the reach of human rhyme.

She is the measure of the sky,

The ultimate, indifferent test,

Where fragile souls both live and die,

Seeking refuge upon her breast.

So gaze upon her distant crown,

That scrapes the roof of all we know.

Not conquered, though men scale her down,

But holding secrets deep below.

Chomolungma, vast and free,

More ancient than our fleeting strife,

You are the world’s cold majesty,

The very essence of stark life.

A frozen goddess, draped in cloud,

Whispering truths on biting wind:

That aspiration, brave and proud,

Is humbled where the heights begin.

You stand alone, supreme, apart,

A monument to stone and sky,

Enshrined forever in the heart –

The peak where Earth ascends to die,

And yet, undying, reigns supreme,

The Mother Mountain of our dream.

Short Summary :

This epic poem captures the grandeur and peril of Mount Everest, blending natural majesty with human ambition. It begins with the mountain’s geological birth, portraying it as a timeless, almost divine force—revered by Sherpas as Chomolungma, "Mother of the Sky." The verses then trace a climber’s arduous journey: the lethal Khumbu Icefall, the silent Western Cwm, the brutal Lhotse Face, and the oxygen-starved summit ridge, where triumph and mortality intertwine.

Yet the poem also critiques Everest’s commercialization, referencing the "Rainbow Valley" of lost climbers and the crowded, guided ascents that contrast with Sherpas’ quiet resilience. Ultimately, Everest emerges as an eternal, indifferent guardian—older than civilization, unmoved by human conquest, and now a fragile witness to climate change. The closing lines reaffirm its sacred duality: a beacon of dreams and a humbling reminder of nature’s supremacy.