Dried Dungeon Poem by Gianni Pansensoy

And where the drops of rain,
there beneath the clearest blue sky's vein,
they're circling round and round a crystalline chain,
but disappear before falling on a very bald horizon's lane.

When the wet grasses on the hills rolled ever green,
then pollen blown by the drones on the air were clean,
barren wild bulls survived on roots but were not lean,
even soaked in mud yet sluggish turtles, never heathen.

There in a humid primordial jungle, hawked eagle's eggs lain,
where monkeys' and trees' shadows were treated not in disdain,
here between boulders' mosses and fruit vines, parrots' domain,
anywhere on the valley's peak and dried leaves, their terrain.

Between the flattened plateaus, where the river once flowed,
here in a garden of budding flowers, the Eden of sparrows.
Javeline was the throw of falling water, rainbow's arrow.
Woven cobweb on the other side was the spider's pillow.

Yet man's desire and collective aim is extremely in manic vain,
at the very beginning, he thought of none but to gain,
cut all of the trees till drops of rain are gone,
flat, earth is dried, blistering den.