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.
