Caverns of the land run deep,
caverns of the aquifers,
strong water, pure springs
eke out glades and ferny gullies.
Springs dream their own worship;
fountains, stone basins,
black and white tiling of medieval baths,
calling for dedicants to drink at them.
They do not want to accept our response;
dry up and ossify,
crystal in when the aquifers break
leaving only stains of red iron and traces of calcite.
They do not want their only remains
to be a serpentine sculpture in aquamarine
or leonine face of rough sandstone
without enough water to whet its tongue.
They do not want to only be remembered
in our chanting of lost names,
but what can be done when we have sealed
our sole life source under concrete?
When it is only in dream that time
turns back and in its deep well
lets us see the reflection of a future
we cannot go back to?