Suddenly comes large growths of low, rocky horns,
A sight to behold by us looking down upon
What seems to spark a fire just by being born
That stands still, struck by the dusk and dawn.
Before we knew it, we gathered our pots and baskets of rain
and over the edge, we poured them on and on.
We did so and did so until our lands were white and drained,
but we looked below to see what from these horns we swept away.
We saw their curved crevices and marveled at how they were veined.
So then, more and more did we pour, night and day.
We carved away, taking from our black lands to shape these horns,
And at the bottom were where their sandy remains lay.
We carved arches and towers and flattops and thorns.
We didn’t know where to stop until our lands broke apart.
“We need to go slower,” our elders loudly warned.
“Our serpentine mists tire from always doing their part.”
We saw we almost flooded the feet of these dusty peaks,
and for a while, we were scared of raining with all our hearts.
After a time, our lack of practice made us too weak.
We couldn’t pour so much or rebuild our exhausted land.
Soon, lakes burrowed down into wells and rushing rivers shrunk into creeks,
But never again have we poured a rainstorm so grand
Lest we reduce our beloved, carved horns into sand.