These stones come from the names you have gathered since childhood,
the hard core of undigested lessons,
the tiniest bones inside your body.
They only seek to live, to outlive you.
At night you hear them tramping heavily,
amassing more small, petty stones,
they share no essential difference from paper and lanterns;
these unpolished words wear a dull, faded glow.
Pile your flesh full of stones, and you shall never become a statue,
nor a monument, these stones bear their own history,
they take root and grow in your joints and vital organs.
You cannot tear them out to beat stray dogs,
nor stack them into fountains or sanctuaries.
Your soldier father perished of these very stones,
time and again, they have disarmed you with searing pain.
You cannot leave them lying on the road, trip over them once more,
glance around at an empty street with no soul in sight,
then kick them far away without a second thought,
as one kicks aside a metaphysical notion of existence.
