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