Between tolls of knolls and mighty terrain
There’s a hundred thousand giants asleep,
They wake up sometimes and move shit around
So trekking is a hassle,
They look like life and death and fear
Depending on weight and size,
On Sundays and Thursdays they roll down boulders
From atop the hill to the village.
We know they are there
And will be for years
Increasing in terms of matter,
We don’t mention them much
On days of joy
And on days we have fairer weather.