Who calls the rains
over black mountains?
Who will tell
the wanderers to stay?
On summer air,
I count thirty clouds....
have they no cause to release?

So happily
they drift on by
in the vast immaterial sky....
Humming a tune
of a life without gloom;
Backs always warm,
gaily, they soar,
thinking, "I could pass
another day
without dropping my rains
on black mountain way."

And so it has been,
and even today,
they spare not a thought;
not a drop falls upon the peaks.
And so it shall be:
Not a drop shall fall on black mountains....
And so it shall be.