The Atlas Mountains

Bouquets of color scramble wildly over each sculpted curve, every chiselled peak. Lush emerald blades strike upwards like rigid soldiers. Along their worn line that separates the broken hills from the lost valleys are buckets of bleeding reds shrivelled to a halt by an overgrowth of budding life. As you daunt past the mark Hope made with delight, life ceases to flourish in a pile of arid dust. But don't be made weary of the blanketing shepards. Like mourning widows hacked clean from their beloved mates, the hills cry for one another. Beneath each peak, settled along each base thrives the brush that sweeps, the stream that courses through the veins of the hollowed hills, the slow burn of a dying ember. Yet all those wandering eyes breathe in is the scar tissue that erodes each pinnacle.