I want to write this poem properly, but none of my words can catch its majesty. What mortal person can recreate a miracle like this? I can’t seem to capture the red towers, worn and rounded by the wind; the cool bowl of pines in the valley; the stiff breeze; the chalky stone; the starving brittle branches that cling to the edge of the cliffs.
My words prove nothing but that my hands aren’t made for matching a miracle. Even pictures snapped by the widest lens leave a thoroughly flattened scene. Naught but a master could please my eyes—not only my eyes, but all my senses!—like this mighty sculpture—this vertical panorama.
Majestic fortresses stand together on a white stone ground, their warm tones blurring and blending together like smeared chalk. The rigid angles of trees stab out from among the curves and contours of the windblown stone. The natural bridges and tipped peaks are powdered with white dust like steam rising from the mix of the conflicting hues.
I look back at my words, my feeble, frail attempt at painting a landscape to match my memory, and can only shake my head.
Perhaps wonders like this can only be created over time: years, centuries worth of time.
Perhaps it takes decades to chip away at a crusty exterior to get to the beautiful figure beneath.
Perhaps wonders like this can only be framed by the hand of, not any man, but the world’s most patient artist.
