The drills, the drills, in feather-land, dug in their heels to build inroads in abyssal rock. Trains went through, and sewer pipes, and the people in castles and carriages of covinous motion in a snarl-up.
The decibels grated eardrums into powder, and the lightless moist dust inset like calcified arteries; a stark-staring miscue. Ossified feathers are not stone.
There's no light in dreams born underground, no sound when they crumble. The sun will shine for billions more, while you in the dark, stumble.