The White Whistlands


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.

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