There are hills they call mountains,
And mounts that dwarf the mind,
That kill men just for seeking
The treasures that they hide.

Their secrets are impenetrable,
Rivers old as ruined dead,
That even in their youth caught
And brought life to you.

That tree there was a nymph,
The brook a laughing sprite,
Laughter isn’t always happy
Mayhaps not meant for you.

Death fills his garden with fresh sown snow,
and cries tears of frost, a great crystal icicle for those we have lost.

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