The Moya View

Epitaph to a Stone

Every thing has a history:

a beginning and a death,

everything in between

is a memory, not life,

just a record of its existence,

an acknowledgement

of its being there

until it is there

and there

and there

and way over there.


A stone is a stone

until light kisses it

and it becomes ray,

rain daubs it

and it is water,

wind licks

and it is breath,

and on and on

tumbling anew


until a hand

touches it

and it dies,

becoming a rock,

just another stone

in a scrap heap,

mauled together

into an edifice

of its death,

a memorial to

its disintegration.


Every house

Is a grave,

building a tomb,

every sidewalk,


a graveyard,

a scream

of every stone

that never


to be


by you.



could look at

a slab of marble

and see his

ur potential,

robbing the stone

of all

its potential.


A dead stone

does not bleed

until its

thrown away

into an ancient

gravely spot

filled with once

untouched stones

and only after

centuries of forgetfulness

when light, rain and wind—

ray, water and breath

cry a truer stone.






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