on a break from work

Stones cast in circles

tell me nothing of you,

nor do the bones,

nor the leaves, nor the blood.

The wind knows naught of you,

neither stream nor sea

bears any news to me.

Against this void,

I tremble, defiant and unwilling

to forget the forgotten,

abandon the departed,

consign to the grave a thing

no longer alive.

If no news comes of you

when the harvest rolls again

across the family fields

and into the stone holdings,

I will go away.

I will walk without a road

as testimony against the gods

who, if they exist at all,

must have no use for love

except as idle sport.

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