The cold stone is broken.
It says that it used to live
on the grey cliffs of the sea.
Staring over to a distant shore
listening for a voice like his.
He swore that once a millennia ago
he heard singing wafting
through the evening mist.
That song, that ever-song
moved through him
season after season
finding every crack, every seam
until he could not stand.
Now the cold stone is broken
listening for the dark song
from the silent distant shore.
Weeping only when it rains.
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