The highland's mouth in morning light,
Its winding path climbs high above,
Through pine trees crowned in misty white,
We're on the road to Baguio
The pressure in my ears I feel,
As fog embraces mountain's view,
Past strawberry fields, the air surreal,
We're on the road to Baguio
Swift soaring birds, their songs so clear!
They echo through the valley's plains,
The vast blue...
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