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I'm at the very top
Of my ride
The sky so low
I can reach out to touch it
Soft on my fingers
Silken air, a chiffon hush
On my rosy cheeks
from the gentle breeze
I can hear the music
Of the wild moor, quiet
In the grey
and the stone-brown rush
Of the bubbling bog
And the raven brings his joy
from the north
In a low song
whispering love to the mountain.

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