the hills sing pink this morning. though their frosted blades of bitter apathy still grip thier tired faces, they greet the day with the lovliest of glimmers. the sun is still but a mystery and the moon just freshly forgotten, the sisters shelter their land from the omonious clouds desiring their approval. and such a day beings, with the small hope of warmth in this barren land. when all our hearts still asunder these hills will join in praises alone.