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The wind whistles through the lonely crags, Of the high, barren mountains, Bringing the tangy scent of sage, down below, To where there is none. The sweet scent of pine and fir, Waft in the breeze, Sending their scents high above, Where they may never go. The richness of growing things, Are carried by the zephyr, To sweetly bring memories of growth and life, To a place beyond their reach. Here among the mountain peaks, The airs of the world tell of life below, Here the frosts gleam ever white, Wreathing the tops in perpetual snow