Cleanse the stone of its sins
It knows not what it did
It was destroyed, perverted, remade
Ripped from the ground, as she bled

The Mother shaped it, made it beautiful
With her wind and waters, made a shape
Natural curves and edges and points
Now broken and left agape

The stone is a stolen innocent
Not made to hurt or heal
A piece of landscape, future sand
Stolen by cities and twisted to kill



Penned by my hand on the 4th of Sarapin, in the year 761 AF.