On ancient snow
The mountain stow
Sifted white dust
Like angelic trust
The arcuate and arduous raise
To which the sun makes a glaze
With mountain ranges so parallel
Like a bilabial Earth it swell
And were it not
For riches sought
This view this road begot
As if it knew it ought
I collectively breathe it in
As if way past my lungs
And deep into my skin
I leave atlas for the cold I shun
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