There was once a place of rock and cloud
Where men climbed moons
Their picks chiseling through antiquity
devastated in ruin.
Where the calming cream seas
Crashed onto the sugary beaches
Luminous with dim, warm starlight.
Where the painters, potters, photographers
The artisans crafted
Engulfed by the pale moon.
But as quickly as a stroke
Artisans became scientists.
Magic became machines.
The White Whistlands lost its fingers.
Fading into antiquity.