Wafting about lazily in the stone breeze
Fingering through the silky, curly hair
Of plump, naked angels carved out of
An igneous landmass of a volcanic vomit,
Beeing through the rock garden trees and flowers
Drenched in dew drops of stone cold and quivering,
Threading the way through the restless roads
And narrow alleys among the quiet stone houses
Of people beautiful like the garden angels
Resting away their endless lives in the slow yards
Like a noiseless engine running on the sweetest wine.
A stone city sans a sound, a lot of movement
As on a bee-hive on a busy beautiful spring day
Or blood in the veins of lovers in the acts of love,
But not a sound to make a meaning–like moving lips
Of a mute singer, or a song and dance number
With the volume turned off, or a battle field noiseless
After a shattering shell has striken you deaf.
The stonesmith, the city God, is always by the fireside
In the stone temple boiling stone, pouring liquid stone
Into casts, and hitting red-hot stone blocks on the stone anvil.
He pricks a momentary hole into my ear and says
In dull smacks of two grey stone lips in no haste,
“There is a stone membrane making everything so silent.”