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Welcome to Beneath Aoraki, a
journey through ice and time.

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Tonight, we imagine an evening in the
mountain valley, using photographs

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made in daylight.

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There is nothing to hurry toward.

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We can begin beside the river, and
let the landscape unfold slowly.

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The mountains stand beyond the
water, their outlines rising against

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an open sky.

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Nearer to us, the ground is broken
into small shapes: a rounded stone,

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a narrow thread of water,
a pale strip of gravel.

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Our imagined evening asks very little.

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We do not need to reach a lookout,
cross a bridge, or climb higher.

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We can remain here, with the
river passing in front of us.

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Let the first impression
of the landscape be enough.

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Water, stone, and a little distance.

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If your eyes close, the journey can
continue through the voice alone.

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The photographs will gradually grow dimmer.

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The picture is a doorway into the
valley, rather than something you

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must keep watching.

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Beyond that doorway, we can take our time.

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In the beginning, there may still be
other things asking for your attention.

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An unfinished thought, a plan for
another day, a small detail from

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somewhere else.

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The valley does not need to compete with them.

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We can let it arrive gently,
one impression at a time.

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Perhaps you notice the pale water first.

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Perhaps the dark fold of the hillside.

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Perhaps only the space between them.

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There is no correct order.

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This story follows a slow path,
but your attention does not have to

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stay on that path at every moment.

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You may drift away from a
sentence and return at the next.

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The landscape will still be here.

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We have time to find it more than once,
and time to let it become familiar

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without asking anything of it.

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Picture a sheltered place beside the
valley, away from the moving water.

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This is an imagined place of rest,
rather than a route to follow.

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From here, the river seems to
gather the space around it.

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One channel curves around a gravel bar.

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Another disappears behind a bank,
then returns a little farther away.

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The eye can follow these separate lines
without needing to choose among them.

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In the photograph, each detail is held still.

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In our imagination, the water continues.

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You might notice how much of
the scene is simply open space.

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Space between the river and the hills.

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Space above the ridge.

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Space around a single stone.

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We can allow the story that same room.

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A sentence can end, and nothing
needs to take its place immediately.

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The valley does not become less
complete when we stop describing it.

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It remains there, beyond the words.

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For a while, let the river be only
a river, and the mountains be only

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their quiet shapes against the sky.

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Imagine the valley as a room
whose walls are very far away.

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The mountain slopes rise on either
side, and the sky opens above them.

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There is no roof to consider, only
the sense of a broad place holding

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smaller things within it.

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The river has its space.

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The stones have theirs.

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Our imagined place of rest belongs
at the edge, where there is no need

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to disturb either one.

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From here, a bend in the
water can be a whole scene.

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We can give it the attention we might
otherwise give an entire journey.

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Then we can let that attention soften.

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The bend remains whether
we describe it or not.

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You may carry its shape for a moment,
like a simple line drawn in memory.

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And when that line fades, there is
still the room of the valley around it.

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The mountains have a history far
longer than the length of our visit.

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The Southern Alps have been raised
through movement of the Earth’s

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crust, while erosion has
continually worn them down.

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Rising and wearing away
belong to the same landscape.

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We need not imagine the whole process at once.

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Think instead of a book whose
pages turn much too slowly to see.

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A fold appears.

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A ridge takes shape.

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Over a span of time beyond an ordinary
lifetime, the shape changes again.

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Tonight, we see one page of that long book.

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The photograph does not ask us to
read everything that came before it.

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It offers the line of a mountain,
a slope catching the light, and the

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valley below.

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There is comfort in letting a
very large story remain large.

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We can learn a little, then stop.

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The land does not require us to
hold its entire history in mind.

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A single ridge is enough to bring
us back to the present scene, and

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to the quiet place where
our imagined evening began.

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When we think about mountain time,
even a long day becomes a small thing.

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Yet small things are the
way we meet a landscape.

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A few minutes of looking.

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The sound of a remembered river.

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A photograph that brings back
the colour of an afternoon.

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We do not need to make our experience
as large as the mountain in order

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for it to belong.

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There can be a quiet balance between
the immense history beyond us

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and the modest moment we inhabit.

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Tonight, that moment is enough.

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The ridge is there, the water below
it, and our attention resting somewhere

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between.

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Imagine the mountain as a
presence rather than a question.

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We can appreciate its
shape without solving it.

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We can acknowledge its long history
without beginning to count the

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years.

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The story can open that
distance, then leave it open.

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Look, in your imagination, from the
distant mountain toward the stones

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near the river.

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The shapes become smaller as they come closer.

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A broad ridge gives way to a slope,
a slope to a bank, and a bank to

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the little uneven ground beside us.

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The same scene can hold grandeur
and modest details without asking

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us to decide which matters more.

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A stone may have a pale
face and a darker edge.

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Another may be almost the colour of the water.

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Some details remain hidden,
and we can leave them hidden.

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This is a journey without
a collection to complete.

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There is no need to count the
peaks or remember every name.

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We can simply notice the way
distance softens an outline.

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Far away, the mountain becomes a shape.

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Nearby, a stone becomes
a small world of texture.

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Between them lies the valley, wide
enough to let our attention wander,

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and quiet enough to let it return.

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For a little while, imagine the weight
of a stone resting exactly where

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it is.

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It is easy to feel that a photograph
ought to be examined from corner

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to corner.

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Tonight, we can look in a different way.

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Let one area of the scene remain
clear and allow the rest to become

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a little less important.

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Perhaps the gravel bank holds your attention.

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Perhaps the far ridge does.

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There is no need to move your attention
in order to complete the picture.

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A landscape is not a list
waiting to be finished.

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It is a place we encounter in
fragments, at the pace available to us.

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In this imagined evening, the pace is gentle.

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The details can wait.

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The shape of a stone may stay with us
longer than the shape of a mountain.

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Then the mountain may return,
softly, without an announcement.

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We can make room for both, and for
the quiet interval between them.

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The glacier moves slowly through the valley.

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Snow gathers high above,
and over time becomes ice.

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Beneath its weight, the ice flows,
carrying fragments of stone.

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We need not follow every grain.

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We can simply picture the patient
movement, and the water continuing

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downstream.

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Glaciers have helped shape the
valleys of this mountain country.

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Their work leaves a landscape that
can be read in broad forms, even

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when the ice itself is far away.

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Imagine the movement at a pace so slow
that a moment seems perfectly still.

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Nothing in our story needs to
imitate the force of that movement.

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We can remain with its patience.

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A wide valley.

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An open basin.

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A length of water leading away.

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The mountains and the ice belong
to a story of changing shapes.

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Our place within it is brief, but
it does not have to be hurried.

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We can pause at the edge of a
thought, just as we paused beside the

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river, and let the next
part arrive in its own time.

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There is something useful about picturing
movement that cannot be hurried.

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We are accustomed to journeys
measured in turns, stops, and arrival

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times.

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Here, we can set those measures aside.

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The ice belongs to a
different scale of motion.

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The photograph belongs to a single moment.

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And the story belongs to the time
it takes for a voice to say a few

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words and become quiet again.

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None of these scales needs
to replace the others.

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They can rest beside one another.

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If the idea of the glacier grows
too large to imagine, return to one

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small impression.

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A pale surface high in the distance.

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A line where the valley opens.

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A fragment of stone.

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The wider story is still there, but
we do not need to carry its weight.

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We can leave that with the mountain.

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Now let your attention rest
on the lake photograph.

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The water occupies a broad, pale
space beneath the surrounding land.

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A bridge marks a human scale
within the larger view.

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Its line helps the eye measure the
distance, then the distance opens

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out again.

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We are not crossing that bridge tonight.

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We are looking from the stillness
of the photograph, and imagining

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the evening around it.

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There is a difference between
travelling through a place and resting

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with its image.

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Here, we have no weather to outrun,
no turning to find, and no appointment

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at the other end.

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The lake can hold our attention lightly.

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You can picture its nearest edge,
then let the farther shore become

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less distinct.

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The image need not stay sharp in your mind.

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Perhaps only its pale colour remains.

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Perhaps only the broad
space between the banks.

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Both are enough.

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If the details begin to fall away, the
story can become simpler with them.

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A lake beneath the mountains.

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A valley around the lake.

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A quiet place from which to look.

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Imagine a quiet stretch of looking,
with no words attached to it.

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The water is there, and the banks around it.

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The bridge makes its slender
line across the view.

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We do not need to turn any of
these things into an instruction.

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They can simply remain as
they are within the image.

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When the voice returns, it need
not explain what the quiet meant.

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Some parts of a journey are
valuable because they ask so little.

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A still photograph can become one of
those parts when we stop searching

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it for the next discovery.

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Perhaps the lake now feels familiar.

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Perhaps it remains distant.

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Either way, we can stay
with it for another moment.

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Let its wide shape be the whole of the scene.

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Beyond that shape, there is room for
the imagined evening to grow softer.

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Water links the high country
with the lower valley.

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In our imagined journey, we return
from the lake toward the river.

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We need not trace a precise
route between the photographs.

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They are separate views, brought
together here as a quiet reflection

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on the same mountain country.

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Picture a channel appearing
between gravel banks.

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It curves away, and the curve
becomes another curve beyond it.

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Water can be an easy thing to imagine
because it does not need a final shape.

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It can gather, separate, and continue.

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The river in the photograph has its
own arrangement of light and colour.

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Tonight, we can carry only a
suggestion of that arrangement.

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A pale ribbon.

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A little shadow beside a stone.

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A broad bend farther out.

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We can leave behind the wish
to see everything clearly.

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The story will continue without that effort.

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Each sentence can make a little
space, then give that space back to

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the quiet.

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The water carries on, beyond the
frame, without needing us to follow.

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You might imagine the river as a
line that continues on another page.

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We can see the part in front of
us, but the rest belongs beyond the

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photograph.

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There is no need to turn that page tonight.

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The continuation can remain a
possibility, rather than a route we have

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to take.

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It is enough to know that our view
is only part of a larger place.

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The same can be true of the story.

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We can hear a sentence without needing
to hold on to the sentence before it.

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We can return to the sound of the
voice without finding exactly where

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we left.

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Nothing important is
waiting to test our memory.

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The water is still on its way, and the
valley still has its space around it.

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Our journey can be complete without
following either one to the end.

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00:16:40,159 --> 00:16:44,909
Aoraki holds a profound ancestral
significance for Ngāi Tahu.

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00:16:44,909 --> 00:16:49,559
Ngāi Tahu are a Māori tribal people
of New Zealand’s South Island.

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00:16:49,559 --> 00:16:54,834
Their name means people of Tahu,
after their ancestor Tahu Pōtiki.

245
00:16:54,834 --> 00:16:58,909
Their published account describes
Aoraki and his brothers becoming

246
00:16:58,909 --> 00:17:02,434
the mountains, with Aoraki the highest.

247
00:17:02,434 --> 00:17:07,147
We acknowledge that account as a
living cultural tradition, distinct

248
00:17:07,147 --> 00:17:11,022
from the geological
description of the landscape.

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00:17:11,409 --> 00:17:15,659
We are not inventing words for those
ancestors, or turning their story

250
00:17:15,659 --> 00:17:17,484
into a personal dream.

251
00:17:17,484 --> 00:17:21,434
We can simply recognise that a
place carries relationships as well

252
00:17:21,434 --> 00:17:23,197
as physical forms.

253
00:17:23,197 --> 00:17:27,784
A mountain can be a familiar outline
to one person, a remembered journey

254
00:17:27,784 --> 00:17:32,084
to another, and an ancestor within
the traditions of its people.

255
00:17:32,084 --> 00:17:35,034
Our photographs show part of a landscape.

256
00:17:35,034 --> 00:17:38,272
They cannot show every
meaning that belongs to it.

257
00:17:38,272 --> 00:17:43,622
To look thoughtfully is to leave room
for what the image does not contain.

258
00:17:44,034 --> 00:17:47,709
Tonight, that recognition
can be brief and quiet.

259
00:17:47,709 --> 00:17:52,234
We acknowledge the mountain, its
enduring significance, and the people

260
00:17:52,234 --> 00:17:56,222
whose relationship with it
reaches beyond our visit.

261
00:17:56,222 --> 00:18:01,159
Then we return to the valley, with a
little more care in the way we see it.

262
00:18:01,159 --> 00:18:05,034
There are many ways to remember
a place after leaving it.

263
00:18:05,034 --> 00:18:07,934
Sometimes a name carries the memory.

264
00:18:07,934 --> 00:18:10,947
Sometimes a photograph does.

265
00:18:11,359 --> 00:18:15,972
Sometimes an ordinary detail returns
unexpectedly: the colour of a

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00:18:15,972 --> 00:18:20,559
bank, the distance between two
slopes, the shape of water seen from

267
00:18:20,559 --> 00:18:21,584
above.

268
00:18:21,584 --> 00:18:25,509
These private memories do not
contain every meaning of the land.

269
00:18:25,509 --> 00:18:29,097
They are a small part of the
relationship a visitor may have with a

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00:18:29,097 --> 00:18:30,109
place.

271
00:18:30,109 --> 00:18:34,034
We can hold them with gratitude,
and with room for the relationships

272
00:18:34,034 --> 00:18:36,884
that are deeper and longer than our own.

273
00:18:36,884 --> 00:18:41,297
In this story, the mountain
is not simply a backdrop.

274
00:18:41,684 --> 00:18:46,634
We acknowledge it as a place of
significance, even when the words become

275
00:18:46,634 --> 00:18:47,922
quiet.

276
00:18:47,922 --> 00:18:52,609
Then we can allow that acknowledgment
to rest, without turning it into

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00:18:52,609 --> 00:18:54,672
another explanation.

278
00:18:54,672 --> 00:18:59,797
The valley remains around us, and
the river leads our attention gently

279
00:18:59,797 --> 00:19:01,959
back toward the water.

280
00:19:21,868 --> 00:19:25,968
The light in the photographs
belongs to the day they were made.

281
00:19:25,968 --> 00:19:29,568
The evening we are imagining
belongs to this story.

282
00:19:29,568 --> 00:19:34,355
As the picture grows dimmer, no new
sunset is being added to the original

283
00:19:34,355 --> 00:19:35,643
landscape.

284
00:19:35,643 --> 00:19:39,293
We are simply allowing the screen
to become less bright, while the

285
00:19:39,293 --> 00:19:41,643
remembered valley remains.

286
00:19:41,643 --> 00:19:45,780
Imagine the distant ridge
becoming a gentler outline.

287
00:19:45,780 --> 00:19:49,605
The stones near the river
lose their separate edges.

288
00:19:49,605 --> 00:19:54,480
The lake is no longer a collection
of details, but a broad and quiet

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00:19:54,480 --> 00:19:55,755
space.

290
00:19:56,168 --> 00:19:59,230
You do not have to keep those images in place.

291
00:19:59,230 --> 00:20:00,955
Let them come and go.

292
00:20:00,955 --> 00:20:05,130
A moment beside the lake may return
to a moment beside the river.

293
00:20:05,130 --> 00:20:09,043
A mountain may become only
the idea of a mountain.

294
00:20:09,043 --> 00:20:14,393
The story does not need to correct
these small changes in your imagination.

295
00:20:14,393 --> 00:20:16,468
We have already found the valley.

296
00:20:16,468 --> 00:20:20,230
There is no further
destination to reach tonight.

297
00:20:20,230 --> 00:20:25,243
The words can grow fewer, the
pauses a little longer, and the view

298
00:20:25,243 --> 00:20:26,980
a little softer.

299
00:20:27,368 --> 00:20:31,580
As the scene becomes less bright,
we can release the expectation of

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00:20:31,580 --> 00:20:33,293
a perfect picture.

301
00:20:33,293 --> 00:20:36,643
The imagined evening does
not need a precise colour.

302
00:20:36,643 --> 00:20:41,018
It may be grey, blue, or
simply a softening of outlines.

303
00:20:41,018 --> 00:20:45,680
The actual photograph remains
unchanged in its original file.

304
00:20:45,680 --> 00:20:48,980
Here, the screen is only giving us less light.

305
00:20:48,980 --> 00:20:50,943
That is all it needs to do.

306
00:20:50,943 --> 00:20:55,318
We can let the image grow quiet in
the same way that a sentence grows

307
00:20:55,318 --> 00:20:57,993
quiet when it has reached its end.

308
00:20:57,993 --> 00:21:01,105
No abrupt change is necessary.

309
00:21:01,493 --> 00:21:04,593
The details do not vanish all at once.

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00:21:04,593 --> 00:21:09,543
They become less distinct, until
the idea of the valley is easier to

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00:21:09,543 --> 00:21:12,755
hold than the separate things within it.

312
00:21:12,755 --> 00:21:14,618
A broad space.

313
00:21:14,618 --> 00:21:16,955
A river through that space.

314
00:21:16,955 --> 00:21:18,955
A mountain beyond it.

315
00:21:18,955 --> 00:21:23,593
The evening can remain that
simple for as long as we wish.

316
00:21:59,573 --> 00:22:03,585
For a while, we can leave the
history of the mountains behind us.

317
00:22:03,585 --> 00:22:07,335
Not because it has ended, but
because we have followed enough of it

318
00:22:07,335 --> 00:22:08,573
for tonight.

319
00:22:08,573 --> 00:22:12,535
We have pictured the slow rise of
the land, the patient movement of

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00:22:12,535 --> 00:22:16,310
ice, and water finding its
way through the valley.

321
00:22:16,310 --> 00:22:20,410
Now those thoughts can settle beside
one another without becoming a

322
00:22:20,410 --> 00:22:22,198
lesson to remember.

323
00:22:22,198 --> 00:22:27,273
You may keep one simple image:
a pale river beneath a mountain.

324
00:22:27,273 --> 00:22:30,448
Or the lake, with its wide surface.

325
00:22:30,448 --> 00:22:33,460
Or a stone resting on the gravel.

326
00:22:33,873 --> 00:22:36,373
There is no best image to choose.

327
00:22:36,373 --> 00:22:39,985
The smallest detail may
be the easiest companion.

328
00:22:39,985 --> 00:22:43,523
Let it remain only as
long as it feels natural.

329
00:22:43,523 --> 00:22:46,773
When it fades, nothing needs to replace it.

330
00:22:46,773 --> 00:22:50,173
The valley can rest beyond
the edge of attention.

331
00:22:50,173 --> 00:22:54,898
The photographs are growing dim,
and the voice is growing softer.

332
00:22:54,898 --> 00:22:58,010
Still clear enough to follow, if you wish.

333
00:22:58,010 --> 00:23:02,923
Quiet enough to leave behind, if
the words are no longer needed.

334
00:23:02,923 --> 00:23:07,985
There may still be moments when
your attention becomes clear again.

335
00:23:08,398 --> 00:23:12,323
You notice the voice, or remember
the shape of the lake, or wonder

336
00:23:12,323 --> 00:23:14,273
where the story has gone.

337
00:23:14,273 --> 00:23:16,173
There is nothing to correct.

338
00:23:16,173 --> 00:23:19,123
We are still in the same quiet landscape.

339
00:23:19,123 --> 00:23:22,960
You can join the words again
without beginning the journey over.

340
00:23:22,960 --> 00:23:26,123
The river offers an easy place to return.

341
00:23:26,123 --> 00:23:31,223
Its curve is simple, and its
continuation needs no explanation.

342
00:23:31,223 --> 00:23:34,473
Or you may return to the
stone beside the water.

343
00:23:34,473 --> 00:23:36,598
It asks even less.

344
00:23:36,598 --> 00:23:41,535
It is resting in the remembered
photograph, with no destination beyond

345
00:23:41,535 --> 00:23:43,735
the place where it lies.

346
00:23:44,148 --> 00:23:48,835
Let the story become small enough
to meet you wherever your attention

347
00:23:48,835 --> 00:23:50,435
happens to be.

348
00:23:50,435 --> 00:23:52,035
A few words.

349
00:23:52,035 --> 00:23:53,710
A little space.

350
00:23:53,710 --> 00:23:58,448
The faint outline of the
valley, remaining beyond both.

351
00:24:35,400 --> 00:24:39,300
The river continues through the
valley, while the mountains remain

352
00:24:39,300 --> 00:24:40,400
above us.

353
00:24:40,400 --> 00:24:43,538
There is no need to follow
it any farther tonight.

354
00:24:43,538 --> 00:24:46,813
A curve of water disappears beyond a bank.

355
00:24:46,813 --> 00:24:50,050
A line of stone leads toward the distance.

356
00:24:50,050 --> 00:24:54,800
The photograph holds them, and
our imagination lets them move.

357
00:24:54,800 --> 00:24:58,800
We can allow both to be true
without working at either one.

358
00:24:58,800 --> 00:25:02,613
There is room now for the
story to become very simple.

359
00:25:02,613 --> 00:25:04,513
The valley remains.

360
00:25:04,513 --> 00:25:06,588
The water continues.

361
00:25:06,588 --> 00:25:10,113
The mountain has its place above the river.

362
00:25:10,525 --> 00:25:15,425
These are thoughts we can return to,
rather than tasks we must complete.

363
00:25:15,425 --> 00:25:18,450
Between the words, there
is a little more silence.

364
00:25:18,450 --> 00:25:20,175
We do not have to fill it.

365
00:25:20,175 --> 00:25:23,150
If a detail returns, let it be welcome.

366
00:25:23,150 --> 00:25:26,500
If no detail returns, the quiet is enough.

367
00:25:26,500 --> 00:25:30,075
Our imagined evening has
no last view to collect.

368
00:25:30,075 --> 00:25:34,500
We can stay where we are, while
the river continues beyond us.

369
00:25:34,500 --> 00:25:39,138
Imagine that the last clear detail
of the photograph is a narrow line

370
00:25:39,138 --> 00:25:40,350
of water.

371
00:25:40,350 --> 00:25:44,038
Around it, the banks are only suggestions.

372
00:25:44,450 --> 00:25:47,500
Beyond it, the mountains are a softer shape.

373
00:25:47,500 --> 00:25:51,288
We can let that line of water
remain without trying to sharpen the

374
00:25:51,288 --> 00:25:52,775
rest of the scene.

375
00:25:52,775 --> 00:25:56,350
Soon, even the line may become less distinct.

376
00:25:56,350 --> 00:26:00,100
The valley does not need to be
held together by our attention.

377
00:26:00,100 --> 00:26:04,575
It can remain somewhere beyond it,
like a familiar place remembered

378
00:26:04,575 --> 00:26:06,038
without effort.

379
00:26:06,038 --> 00:26:10,175
The story will give you no sudden
sound to bring everything back into

380
00:26:10,175 --> 00:26:11,325
focus.

381
00:26:11,325 --> 00:26:16,588
Its ending will arrive gently,
with room around the final words.

382
00:26:16,588 --> 00:26:19,788
There is no need to wait for those words.

383
00:26:20,200 --> 00:26:25,875
There is no need to notice exactly
when the voice becomes quiet.

384
00:26:25,875 --> 00:26:30,275
We can allow the journey
to settle at its own pace.

385
00:27:08,200 --> 00:27:11,863
We return to the quiet valley beneath Aoraki.

386
00:27:11,863 --> 00:27:14,713
The mountains need no answer from us.

387
00:27:14,713 --> 00:27:18,363
The river continues beyond
the edge of the photograph.

388
00:27:18,363 --> 00:27:22,588
For now, there is only the remembered
shape of the land, and a little

389
00:27:22,588 --> 00:27:24,163
room to rest.

390
00:27:24,163 --> 00:27:28,650
The picture can fade, and the
valley need not disappear with it.

391
00:27:28,650 --> 00:27:33,538
Its outline may remain for a moment,
then soften into something less

392
00:27:33,538 --> 00:27:34,700
distinct.

393
00:27:34,700 --> 00:27:38,650
We have come through a little
of the mountain’s long story.

394
00:27:38,650 --> 00:27:43,013
We have left room for the
stories that belong to others.

395
00:27:43,450 --> 00:27:46,225
Now we can leave room for stillness.

396
00:27:46,225 --> 00:27:49,338
There is no bright farewell
waiting at the end.

397
00:27:49,338 --> 00:27:52,613
No final instruction to hold in mind.

398
00:27:52,613 --> 00:27:57,038
Only the quiet continuation of
the evening we imagined together.

399
00:27:57,038 --> 00:27:59,100
Water beyond the frame.

400
00:27:59,100 --> 00:28:01,075
Stone beside the water.

401
00:28:01,075 --> 00:28:04,600
The mountain, somewhere
beyond the last clear shape.

402
00:28:04,600 --> 00:28:06,725
And time enough to let them go.

403
00:28:06,725 --> 00:28:10,438
If there is still an image with
you, let it be a simple one.

404
00:28:10,438 --> 00:28:11,913
A bend of river.

405
00:28:11,913 --> 00:28:14,088
The pale space of the lake.

406
00:28:14,088 --> 00:28:16,725
A ridge against an open sky.

407
00:28:16,725 --> 00:28:19,563
We have no more details to add.

408
00:28:19,975 --> 00:28:23,813
The landscape has already
given the story its shape.

409
00:28:23,813 --> 00:28:28,238
The voice can leave it there, without
asking you to remember its name

410
00:28:28,238 --> 00:28:30,888
or follow its history any farther.

411
00:28:30,888 --> 00:28:35,775
Beyond the last words, there will
be a quiet tail, and a dark screen.

412
00:28:35,775 --> 00:28:40,363
The original photographs remain
themselves, while our imagined evening

413
00:28:40,363 --> 00:28:42,875
comes gently to its close.

414
00:28:42,875 --> 00:28:47,613
We can leave the river in motion,
the stones at rest, and the mountain

415
00:28:47,613 --> 00:28:48,875
beyond them.

416
00:28:48,875 --> 00:28:51,013
None needs a farewell.

417
00:28:51,013 --> 00:28:55,813
The valley remains a place we
can return to another time.

418
00:28:56,200 --> 00:28:59,900
For tonight, there is room enough to rest.