She strides tall 
On the uphill march, 
Among the winding column
Of friends and fighters 
And their parade of complaints 

Their banter is a song 
There is order, there is rhythm 
The blue shades of its verse
Form the tongue they exhale  

Winding up through the mist 
On a thankless journey, 
She fills her boots with stones 
In the alpine shadows 

Until the ivory crest 
Flames a luminous red, 
And all gripes melt away 
Among the tracers in the wind