Gray stones stand sentinel in ordered row
words carved in sharp relief, or by time worn
old missives by these primal rocks are borne
enduring rank on rank for us to know.
Stone messages arranged so long ago
from earth’s hot heart these granite tomes were torn
cold words that in the heat of passion were born
tarry for us in a mute tableau.
Phrase arranged in rigid form remains,
where passing time has passion’s context shorn,
pale specters of the furor gone before.
Mute testimony to eternal chains
mortality a fate we cannot scorn
restraining every heart’s attempt to soar.