Where the Indian paintbrush blooms,
and the mountain lupine sighs,
the world is draped in fire and dusk,
beneath cathedral skies.

The peaks rise up like silent songs,
in tones of stone and white,
where glaciers drink the breath of stars
and spill their silver light.

The rivers weave through meadowed gold,
soft ribbons, cool and bright,
they whisper tales of time and stone,
of shadow, love, and flight.

The wind, a ghost of ancient hymns,
runs wild through trembling pine,
it calls the heart to break, to mend,
to lose, to seek, to find.

Oh, wanderer, let yourself at ease,
look from where you came.
See the ancient, soul-kissed forest,
and remember...the earth still knows your name