Sing, O muse, of glorious Balamath,
Whose tireless song lilts then booms,
Ebbing like thunder through panes of glass.
Great winds wake,
'Neath gnarled bough and crumbled stone,
The sighs of long dead scholar-kings,
Breathing still through creaking bones.
Here the columns lurk unburdened,
Welkynds strain against a potent gloom.
Arches stand like arrows drawn,
The scholar's mark, the endless sky,
In whose depths the greatest storms
Roar, snort, bluster,
Like great gray beasts
Waiting, yearning to be tamed.
In this place we find the power,
A hidden canyon of ancient stone
Cradles, shelters, and conceals,
The forgotten bellows of old Aldmeris.