I saw the sun low on the horizon, the high mountains and the dry land.
The moss was the symbol of our troubles, permitted no longer to exist.
Thriving was found in the sparse desert, open-ended rain blocked by a volcanic presence.
Shields to some, offenses to others, friends to me.
In this we are no longer alone. People may fall away, few faces we may see.
Tread with me my dearest, and we will abandon this place.
We will move upstream, and discard our troubles to the quiet torrents.