Climbing a mountain, I feel like
I've escaped Plato's cave.
My senses reel as though they're a
crew of newly freed slaves.
The sky is bluer, rivers green,
each grit granule is clear.
And even at the very edge,
there's ease in feeling fear.
By "ease" I mean not frozen stiff,
but like a friend so dear
that one can take one's grand peril,
a gift received with cheer.
Take me to the mountains, I say,
where it's serene and real,
and I can open up my sight
to a world that's ideal.
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