He whispered that I am a valley of high mountains
As I stood on its summit
And the world held still on a deadly winter

And the glaciers I had climbed 
When I scaled this mountain last
Had faded and settled into the flowerbeds.

But be silent, I warned him
Who was on the summit with me.
Because your echoes may break the mountains
And it might all come to an end.

And as he looked ahead and spoke
Of the filthy world below

I held the snow in my palm
And prayed on it.

And he talked and talked

As I gazed at my hands
I was no valley, for I could not see the mountains
In my fingertips.
Where the artist saw a valley,
I, the poet, saw blood, only blood.

And my cries broke the mountain

And there was blood, only blood!