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Purple skies, blue mountains, plunging cliffs, lustrous greens, hues of yellow, and the faint songs of nightingales. Cross legged he had sat there since morning, spellbound by the paddy fields below. Feet throbbing, legs crawling with pains; he remembered, and envied, the vigour of his youth. A young man had once looked up, and behold! – the mountain! And he wanted.

There he had stumbled. There we lost the first one – what was his name? -, and over there half the company had returned. Five days he slept there under the rain, and over there he gave up, and there, and there as well. There he had turned around and began even walking home. And the final years were the hardest, he had seen no one for years.

‘Ok, what do I now?’, it said. He furrowed his brow, it would seem he hadn’t discarded the impatience of youth. Adding to his irritation, he was unsure whether his impatience had hindered him, or sped him along. And then he heard them – eagles! One, two and another – his mouth was agape, and beyond them the stars piercing the evening gloom. And then he knew; he wanted. He bowed his head, and waited.

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