They shook the mountain caves at night,
They broke the boulders, cracked the cliffs,
They mocked the flags on sunrise snow,
They howled around the prayer wheels.
Then far beyond the mountain’s pull
A gentle chant, the plateaux’s thought,
Was caught in clouds and spiralled up
To join the Karakoram’s breath.
They stopped a while to hear the chant,
Put down their knives of Yengisar.
Then, furrow-browed, they went on back
To breaking wilderness and peace.
For all their noise, they heard the change:
They sensed the myths had rearranged.