Alpine snows flow down the mountain,
Melting, rushing, gathering speed
Flush against a beaver's dam
The roaring flood is briefly held

Must the waters still be hidden?
Must the torrent be restrained?
Groaning, cracking with the pressure,
The timbers creak and shatter now.

The water loosed, now it rejoices,
Capering down the mountain vale
Bounding rocks and churning debris
It gulps the trees and carves the sod

Slowing, easing, now placated
Finally it has reached the sea
Its journey ended, goal accomplished
And in its wake: a trail of turmoil,
Destruction, death, and utter ruin.


Penned by my hand on the 14th of Aeguary, in the year 864 AF.