Acres of clouds and layers of azure mist above transparent valleys, lying over the skies of both Piedmont and Lombardy, of the narrow Aosta Valley and the far Ligurian cliffs.

I stay here over this steep icy ridge at 4436 meters, on the top of the snowy Parrotspitze in the Monte Rosa Massif, watching the infinite around me, under my crampons.
And an old refrain comes to my mind while up here, while thinking how the hell could this life include such foolish beauties and so many terrible losses, like the one I experienced on last September, 2012.

And this broken record brings no answers, just continuing its whisper...

"Aus den Wolken tropft ein Chor
Kriecht sich in das kleine Ohr
Komm her, bleib hier
Wir sind gut zu dir
Komm her, bleib hier
Wir sind Brüder dir"

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