I can feel the ice-cold snow burning on my skin,
And the crystal clear air
As we sit in the silver steel chairlift, our long skis dangling below us
Our soft, fluffy hair turns into stiff icicles
The higher we go, the denser and milkier the fog becomes,
Our chairlift seems to be the only one,
Empty chairlifts from the opposite side come and go, appear and disappear
Like lifeless, gray ghosts
There is nothing, only our thin voices
And the clanking sounds of the steel chairlifts
We’re sitting there,
Like living sculptures made of ice
On the mountain, one of the huge skiing mountains,
The fog is so horrific that we can’t see where the snow ends and the sky begins
Neither can we see trees, or other people
We are completely alone
As we start our way downwards, slowly, the only goal is to arrive safely
For a long time there’s nothing but the constant whoosh
Of our skis on the white snow
As we further and further down the mountain,
We can see more and more people off in the distance
Slowly, their voices are added, too
The world breathes, turns to life again.