A little stone lay by the roadside,
Thousands passed by everyday,
But no one had the time to spare a glance..
And yet, the stone was happy in its solitude,
Its quiet reverie and its tranquil trance.
And then, one day a girl came along,
She took a fancy to the stone and its quiet song.
She heard the tremble in its tones,
And the soliloquy that struck a chord within her own,
And a bond was formed that day,
Yes, the girl treasured the stone,
Accorded it a place of honor and to friends it was shown,
Days were spent in quiet talks…and nights were full of
whispers,
Secrets were shared, promises made....
And she made the stone forget its place,
The stone assumed them to be inseparable,
The inanimate being did know the meaning of forever,
But little did it know of the fickle human nature,
And their attachments and affections that last only as long
as something more
interesting does not come along.
But how can anyone expect a mere stone to comprehend,’
The depths and intricacies of human emotion,
Unknowingly it presumed too much and became too bold,
Forgot itself and did something that it wasn't told,
And viola, the girl finally realized..
That it was just a common roadside stone,
So out of the window it was thrown,
The stone landed in the same old place,
People still came and dint spare a glance.
But this time something had changed,
The stone was still there but….it had cracked.
I admire this poem of the heartbroken stone so much. I suppose that one day it will become dust, then be transformed into the minerals in a cauliflower, and get gobbled down by a stone mason erecting a temple. I hope you did not write this poem because your heart was broken. I was reminded of Annie Dillard's Teaching A Stone To Talk: At a certain point you say to the woods, to the sea, to the mountains, the world,
ReplyDeleteNow I am ready. Now I will stop and be wholly attentive. You empty yourself and wait,
listening. After a time you hear it: there is nothing there. There is nothing but those
things only, those created objects, discrete, growing or holding, or swaying, being rained
on or raining, held, flooding or ebbing, standing, or spread. You feel the world’s word as
a tension, a hum, a single chorused note everywhere the same. This is it: this hum is the
silence.
The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega. It is God’s brooding
over the face of the waters, it is the blended note of the ten thousand things, the whine of
wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address
the prayer to “World.” Distinctions blur. Quit your tents. Pray without ceasing.