Dromornithid Poem by Síngular Poet Bonganí Zungu

We couldn't; nor needn't; didn't.
None whispered; nor near mist-top mountain range.
We couldn't name the norm with such heating pain; would such survive. Around the edges thin, a deed in droughts be blown as thirds, the hurry-hurl of a hurricane our ancestors would wail the weep. And another.
The variation breeds and breathes a cycle of fossils dried. And duned a deed.
As these are those who couldn't.
While over millennia, to here.