If the air of the surface has begun to suffocate, to choke,
if beyond suffocating it has begun to poison, to corrode,
if beyond poisoning it has begun to kill, to erode,
come to the mountains and live in their embrace.
Cold are these places.
High are these places.
And this is only a precaution,
so they cannot follow your traces.
If they have begun to fasten shackles to your feet and call them wisdom, to tether,
if they have become more obstacle than burden, more smothering than shelter,
and society has nailed you to the ground on which you stand, forever,
grow wings and fly toward the skies and vanish into the aether.
Far are these places.
Unreachable are these places.
And it is this that built our hidden paradise
among the hard stones of the snowy biome.
Come and see that there are others akin to you.
You would do us good to keep us within your view.
Come and hear the unheard songs we offer to you.
Our singer is existence itself; it sings only for the chosen few.
Join the echoing orchestra.
Breathe our noble air beneath the starless strata.
You are not bound to the breath of fauna.
The narcotic warmth dissolves beyond our arcana.
Our warmth is cold,
and through this hardness
we become gentle.
Our kindness is rude,
and through this sternness
we become welcoming.
Forget the ruins left behind you,
shed the disgraces of your past,
and come to the mountains.
― Atrona Grizel