Stones

Little stones, how old you are not even earth knows. Infant soil where you lie unbedded must wonder about you. You have no history; history itself is young, so young it never heard of you. What right have I to pick one of your number, take it home, remark on glint and glisten, set it proudly over my flickering hearth? It is you should gather me, transient, hither to thither without hail or by-your-leave. You tell me out of your infinite silence I am swirl of mist, puff of vapor unclassified, intruder for a moment on the wind. I feel my self-assessments wither in the making as I stand sensing what existence is. I number my few masteries beset by rounds of follies, and I think it is you who will endure.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK