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The Barrens

There's a land where the freeways are rivers,
Ice paved for huskies in winter.
There's a band, branded men who are livers,
No tourists their secrets could enter.

It's a wasteland of tossed tundra and mountains,
Wrong named when Barrens entitled.
It has waters unfished, falling fountains,
It's gold, no paper entitled.

It's a scene that's majestic, magnetic.
Untamed, unharnessed, its vastness.
Time to test what's improper, prophetic,
Crucible cleansed men of crassness.

- William Malewitz

Wasteland isn't.

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