Listening to Stone

In quiet stillness, the stone remains,
Through sun and storm, through drought and rains.
It feels the pulse of ancient ground,
Where whispers of the past resound.

Its skin is rough, yet deep within,
Are voices soft, where tales begin.
It knows of lives and years gone cold,
The silent keeper of stories untold.

Hands once carved with patient grace,
Patterns woven in stony lace.
From temple steps to forest floor,
It heard each step, and always more.

It heard the builder’s breath drawn tight,
The chisel’s song in morning light.
It felt the fall of weary hand,
That shaped and carved at love’s command.

In castle walls or mountain high,
The stone has seen both dream and sigh.
It cradles time, a friend, alone—
The waiting ear, the listening stone.

So lean in close, and let it tell
The tales within its granite shell.
For in its still, unbroken weight,
It holds the past, both small and great.

And as it listens, so may we,
Find our own voice in history.
In earth and stone, we’re never lone—
We’re heard in the heart of the listening stone.