63

The rolling skies stretch far,
Torn by clouds that smear the blue canvas

Huge peaks jagged,
are tipped with fiery snow

Among the encircling mountains,
one peak harbours blossoms

Sprouting pink over grey,
from cliffs otherwise bare

In the midst of pink sits,
a lone soul with a zither

She is covered in white,
a robe that flows like silver

White,
Like the torn clouds

White,
Like the snow on the peaks

White!
Like a mountain river

To whom does one play,
such a solemn tune?

thepleasantsimpleguy

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