High on the hills the clouds come storming

Darkened by raindrops falling thick as hail

Upon the flooding stones; rivulets,

Like streams of life blood forming

The clear waters of the springs,

That rush their headlong way into the vale.

Here on these mystic hills the waters gush

Pure and immaculate, riding rock and stone;

Cascading downwards into deep, dark gullies

To fill strange, silent pools where winds do hush

In memory of foolish bathers lured to atone

Amongst the blasted quarries left by men.

Those poor, dead souls a sacrifice made to the gods

Of strange Insensibility. Then hills as soft and

Smoothly rounded as a woman’s breast; now scarred

And gouged out by the work of men to lay out roads

For endless human traffic through the land.

 They now remain deep, icy pools of death.