The old one shook his head. "It would be the same."
"Give them another chance."
"They would do it again."
"Just once more."
The old one shook his head again, and for a while they sat, and they watched the destruction. The fires burned higher, and the explosions shook their mountain more roughly.
At last, at the end, the old one reached down and scooped up some clay from the bank of the river. He held it in a huge, gentle hand, and the younger one smiled.
"You are good to give them another chance, father."
"Not them," said the old one.
"What do you mean?" the son asked, wonderingly.
"Something else," the majestic figure answered, starting to knead the clay. "What shall it be?"