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The mountains are our underworld

If you doubt that, try the top of a Tibetan pass sometime

Lung-ta wind horses printed on flags gallop their prayers into eternity

Animal skulls, carved and painted, whistle into the void

Up there, every one of us is an exile only partway to somewhere

but with this difference between us,

the living may not stay and the dead may not pass

The summits are our abyss

In the end we are the measure of our desire

How full we fill the emptiness, that is our legend

How empty the legends are, that is the wind

~ Jeff Long


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