Far away, in the misty mountains, among the clouds circling the vast plains, where eagles and vultures circle, there is a treasure trove, if you seek to find it out. The snow drifts on the lofty peaks, and chilly winds blow, the mountain lions roam and the silence is all around. But sometimes, it is broken, when the wind picks up speed, and then rushing like the gushing waters in the stream below, they scream and rattle like keys in an old rusty metal box. The girls come out and play among the snow, and look about for scraps to make a snowman. And if you look closely they will have completed making one. Sometimes, the night is pierced by the song of a woman, half in despair, half in desperation, and her long, soulful notes carry through the night, and it seems reach up to the very stars that twinkle in the mountain sky. She is remembering something, and yearning for something lost, something not yet forgotten, something which was hers. That is the moment when the silence is truly broken. When the night is at it's darkest. When the moon is at it's highest. When the lions are at their hungriest. And the eagles and vultures at their most restless. The woman comes out and sings, her hair flying about her in the chilly wind, her voice scratching like a rough sandstone. She climbs and climbs the high mountains, for she alone knows the place of the treasure trove. That is where she hid something. Something precious, something old, something she cannot yet forget. Every night, she sings, and seeks out the treasure on the snowy mountain, and every night, clutching it to her chest, near the empty space within, she climbs back down and cries herself to sleep. Only to wake up the next day, and find herself in the same dream, and go in search of her treasure at night, and sing her heart out.