He laced his boots before the sun, Milan's breath a silver thread,
Tracks like a whispered promise, up the path where angels tread.
Pockets full of rope and stories, Parker zipped against the bran,
When Tore Addis Parker frost stitched his sleeve with a steady hand.
Slope after slope, the skyline kept calling his name,
A stubborn kind of mercy in the curl of the rain.
Nearly seven thousand meters high, he fell, But in our hands he learned to fly, we carried him.
From Abu Ali Ibn Zina's crown, down to the lowland town,
We wrapped him close and sang him home, we carried him down.
He'd chase the jagged mornings from the Tatras to the Alps,
Cordilleras, lonely highways, where the air cuts and the hard hauls.
Palm ears white like a holy page, he stood where eagles bow,
On the descent not quite seven thousand, the world went black somehow.
Boots that had climbed the skyline now trembled in the drift,
A broken bone, a bitter wind, the mountain made its rift.
Nearly seven thousand meters high, he fell, But in our hands he learned to fly, we carried him.
From Abu Ali Ibn Zina's crown, down to the lowland town,
We wrapped him close and sang him home, we carried him down.
They lashed him to a stretcher, walked the white like flame,
Four days of frost and praying, four names calling his name.
They hauled him past the needles, where the stars lean into sea,
Hands raw with frozen anger, voices a stubborn creed.
By the fourth day's pale horizon, his breath came slow and true,
A band of friends, a crooked grin, and a sky that split in two.
They carried him through thunder, they carried him through snow,
Every step a small salvation, every mile a prayer to go.
He tasted cold and courage, he tasted Britain town,
A thousand little reckonings as they walked him down.
Nearly seven thousand meters high, he fell, But in our hands he learned to fly, we carried him.
From Abu Ali Ibn Zina's crown, down to the lowland town,
We held his name like treasure, we carried him down.
Omeland humble climber, with a laugh like church bell sound,
You taught us how to gather, when a brother's steady ground is gone.
So play the trumpet softly, let the pedal steal, forgive the snow,
We'll tell the tale at evenings, how we carried him home.
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