. . . There was once a valley rich,
abounding in its fertile growth,
and in its heart a river flowed . . .
. . . In the banks the farmers sowed,
and fed themselves and more beside . . .
How now these parts we know
when all that we can show
is black, an empty waste?
Their world has been erased,
and broken pots are all
āmere shards which are too smallā
we have to hold or touch.
And though there is so much
which is forever lost
I find it worth the cost,
the hours in the dirt,
the days in the desert,
the months without a home,
the years Iāve had to roam,
to learn what happened here:
why once a place so dear
so great and full of life,
should with no sign of strife
be rendered blackened ash . . .
Tale Told 