• By Daniel Leach

Stones


These stones that like huge sculpted figures lie Amid the trunks of moss and fern-clad trees, Eons of creatures have seen born and die And the land’s face carved by the shifting seas. All of earth’s seasons since the dawn of Man, Are but a day in their old being’s span, But of the self-same cosmic dust as I, They seem to whisper low upon the breeze.


I listen to that murmur, drawing near, And touch the old moss-bearded face of one, Whose sacred language only those may hear Who have imagined a world just begun, And their own atoms scattered in this earth, Awaiting over ages for their birth Into a form that would someday appear, And know the meaning of what time had done.

And I hear all the voices in those stones, Of all the souls who breathed into the air Their lofty thoughts, their dreams, their passion’s moans The pain and joy, the hope and the despair, And feel that my soul’s sound may penetrate Into their depths and someday resonate Like scarcely heard, but felt, low murmured tones That seem to call as from a dream somewhere.

Daniel is a poet living in Houston, Texas. He has spent much of his life fighting for the ideals of classical culture and poetry. Read more of his poetry and writings on culture. His volume of poetry, compiling over 20 years of composition, is entitled "Voices on the Wind."


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