We were climbing the snowy hills with our boards in hand.
The pine trees shrunk far beneath us.
And suddenly a friend shot down the slope.
One of us filmed it with his camera.
That was long ago. Today little of it remains,
Not the film, nor the spontaneous desires.
O my friend, where are they, where have they gone –
The stored memories, youthful crusades, asinine ideas,
I ask not out of sorrow, but in puzzlement.
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