They built a mountain made of stone,
Where river waters softly moan,
A glass-topped peak in valley laid,
By hands of men instead of shade.

Folks call it just the Pyramid,
Where courts and offices are hid,
But old folks smile and shake their heads—
“That ain’t what truly sleeps,” they said.

Long before the coal was king,
Before the rails and church bells’ ring,
Before the first axe split the pine,
A fire-born beast claimed these hills as mine.

Its scales were forged in mountain seams,
Its breath could boil the creeks to steam,
Its wings once cast the noonday night,
Its eyes were twin coals burning bright.

It circled high above the ridges,
Shadowed hollers, crossed the bridges
That hadn’t yet been built by man—
Only deer knew where it ran.

Then came an old and praying folk,
With hickory staff and locust yoke.
They sang no spell from wizard’s page,
But hymns remembered age to age.

They asked the dragon not to die,
Nor chained it ‘neath an angry sky.
Instead they made a solemn vow—
“Sleep beneath these mountains now.

“When greed has cut the hills too deep,
And widows gather still to weep;
When rivers rise and towns despair,
You’ll rest until hope fills the air.”

So down it curled beneath the clay,
Dreaming centuries away.
The mountain folded like a quilt,
And over it the town was built.

Years rolled on like Tug Fork rain,
Coal trains groaned through every vein.
The dragon slumbered, still and deep,
Guarding promises in sleep.

Then men raised walls of glass and stone,
Calling that strange hill their own.
They never guessed what rested there,
Far beneath the courthouse stair.

Yet every now and then at night,
When fog climbs up in silver white,
The Pyramid lets out a sigh
That rattles stars across the sky.

Some swear the windows softly gleam
With amber light that shouldn’t beam.
Others hear a heartbeat slow
Echo where no rivers flow.

When thunder rolls without a cloud,
Or whip-poor-wills grow strangely loud,
The oldest mountain people grin,
As if they hear an ancient friend.

They’ll say, “Don’t fear the sleeping flame.
The dragon knows us all by name.
It ain’t the beast that folks should dread—
It’s waking what should stay in bed.”

For one day, when these hills have healed,
And every scar begins to yield,
The Pyramid will split apart
Like bark around an oak tree’s heart.

A crimson wing will greet the dawn,
Its shadow stretching ridge to lawn.
Not seeking kingdoms, gold, or war—
Just home among these hills once more.

It’ll climb above the misty pine,
Circle every old coal mine,
Then fold its wings against the breeze
And bless the mountains to the seas.

So if you’re passing after dark,
And hear a rumble through the park,
Don’t reckon it’s a truck alone…

The oldest heart in Appalachia
May simply be turning in its sleep.