Young Writers Society

The mountains are waking, ‘coming to life’ one might say.
The mountains are waking; they are an ancient form of life.
The mountains are waking, great boulders drop to the ground.
The mountains are waking; claws are pulled from depths never reached by man.
The mountains are waking, great rolling thunder their voices call.
The mountains are waking; their wings unfurl to shake off the layers of stone collected over the years in slumber deep.
The mountains are waking, eyes crusted over opening wide to blink out the dust.
The mountains are waking; they mourn their slain comrades whose gullets held precious stones and metals.
The mountains are waking; they slept after leaving their impression on man for the last time.
The mountains are waking; they are finally waking after so long.
The mountains are waking, practically fossils after so long a sleep.
The mountains are waking; their heartbeats have been slow and deep for millennia.
The mountains are waking.
The mountains are waking.
The mountains are waking; the time of dragons has come again.