galen

On fully out-stretched wings the eagle soars. The air is thin, where she glides, and difficult to breathe. In the mountain-winter's desolate air she is much alone.
Dusk and cold are her escorts, her only joy, the joy of feeling herself flying on strong wings.

So high she travels into the emptiest winter skies, as brave as the eagle by virtue of her flashing will. She denied herself striving for happiness, she chose the steep paths which frighten us, the weak.

So pale she wanders on, wanders on with brisk and vigorous steps like the wind, through your heart.