Days of white heat and pouring rain,

When the mountains cry in anguish;

You float by, but hear no whimper.

When the fury ebbs, the mountains sigh.

Deep within, the earth roils;

Her sweat pours forth

A beautiful bloom,

Borne in the prime of pain.

As furrow by furrow,

Man hacks through

In search of gold,

Of gold and lust.

Lost amidst the days of yore,

Some atavistic memory

Cries out to a prehistoric God,

That silent rides the mountains high.