O mountain hills who pierce the fog,
Rise up beyond your lakes.
Seize the day in weary palms,
Cupping summer snow
To taste through the autumn.

Rise up above the tunnels
Carved and wending through your insides;
Call the rain and midnight sun
To grace and warm your flanks.

Guard inside you
The monsters killed by morning,
Turned to stone with the rise
Of the fire in the sky.
Spew your boulders
Like rain upon the flatlands
And let them rest
For the eons without ice
To cover their slumber.

The land will breathe from within you
For you are the fathers of fable,
Begging stories to explain
Your impossibility;
Begging songs to be sung
Of your legend.