I once bought a painting from a street artist
Of stone pillars that stand in a circle.
Under the azure sky, I sensed stardust
Though these columns are far from being marble
In the heartland of dewed grass, the fragments
Of such cold, speckled guardians endured
Time’s torment to stay ever so stagnant.
The fine, primitive craftsmanship allure
Viewers to listen to their silent words:
“Theorize my origins, my purpose,
But there will always be doubt of what has occurred.”
The west wind whispers the chants of druids,
And yonder, a herd of scattered sheep graze
The ground that knows the truth of the stones’ tale.


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