Look there
Under that stone, behind that rock
That has broken down with millennium's rains.
It's what remains of what was,
The pocked reminders of the ancient stars.
There were visitors to the campfires they say
There were strange lights that came one night to
stay
On guard against possible forgetfulness.
I am forgetting. I am forgetting my name, the place I flew, what the stones tell me. I am forgetting all this in the darkness of closed eyes and minds, the meaning of the lights. My lids grow heavy, a diligent drone of the sleep of this world.
The sleepwalkers issue orders in this grey place. I cannot see the blood under their flesh. I do not believe it is there. I believe it has flowed endlessly over the tired stones, rivering in empty pools of lost time.
What we have become is not what we were.
What we are is not what we will be.
What we were was more beautiful than the sound
of the stones singing.