Upon these ancient peaks,
nothing has changed.
Upon these ancient peaks,
nothing has changed.
Upon these ancient peaks,
snows of centuries, fallen,
snows of centuries, fallen,
and upon them, year after year,
new snows descend.
Upon these ancient peaks,
homes resemble graves,
in silent whiteness,
like the tombs of saints.
No water, no giver,
in the valley of secrets,
the sheep, their lives depart.
Little time has passed,
Nani had told me,
patience on all slopes,
shepherds once lived,
and flocks of sheep,
on high pastures,
on high pastures,
in falling skirts,
the forest goes on, the forest goes on,
the forest goes on.
They live with affection,
when the sun shines,
some burn brighter,
with fire in the valleys,
thousands die,
Upon these ancient peaks,
nothing has changed.
Upon these ancient peaks.
Silently in darkness,
often from that forest,
a wolf would come,
lifting a sheep,
carrying it to the forest,
and in the morning, only a
skin was found.
Each year swells,
in the river with the rains,
a fit of frenzy strikes,
the river must flow,
in this new deluge,
some villages drowned,
some dissolved in water,
sacrifice ascended,
the sheep, their lives depart.
Then all the shepherds,
searched for that wolf,
and killed him, and returned,
that night a celebration occurred,
and in the morning in the forest,
two more skins were found,
if Nani is to be believed,
the wolf lives on.
Lives will be lost, still,
Upon these ancient peaks,
nothing has changed.
Upon these ancient peaks.
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