The Forlorn spectre

The forlorn Specter
I traverse upon a lonely mountain.
To stumble upon a holy fountain.
It speaks to me from an endless void of sorrow,
where I hold only hatred to borrow.
It speaks to me a tired whisper,
as I sense its pain like sensitive whiskers.
Its concrete texture is smooth and warm to feel,
yet in its presence every drop of sweat is forced to congeal.
Its waters trickle depleting and slow.
It really retains not much to show.
Suddenly a cool mountain air surrounds me,
as its windy whistles carelessly bound me,
to the solitary place upon this quiet peak,
Where another force attempts to speak,
Though its voice remains too weak.
A low melody sounds in my mind,
made up of whispers and natures rhymes.
If only I could hark this long lost voice,
I could truly understand this fountain,
Resting, here, upon this lonely mountain.