There was a man the valley loved,
And what he asked, the stone gave up.
He took a shard and nothing changed.
He took another, nothing changed.
He did not want the whole of it,
Just a small piece for him to keep.
He took his pieces year on year
And year on year the valley bloomed.
The harvest came. The herds grew fat.
The wells ran clear, the children tall.
He laid his hand against the stone.
And struck it once, as he had before.
Grey the stone and grey the ground,
Grey the hand that broke it down.
Ask the valley where they went.
The sands sift on. The stone is spent.
The light went out between two breaths.
No sound. No sign. No warning came.
The roots reached down. The wells went deep.
And what had flowed there flowed no more.
The fields went brown within the month.
The herds lay down and made no sound.
The trees came leafless into spring
And no rain came from cloudless skies.
They went out from the valley then,
The ones who could. He did not look.
He gathered up the shards he'd took
And held them, and they held no warmth.
The man grew thin. He did not stop.
His coat hung loose upon the bone.
He warmed his hands at what was left
And what was left gave nothing back.
They say he sits there yet, and holds
The last grey shard against his chest,
His eyes hold the stone's last glow.
Nothing has taken root there since.
Grey the stone and grey the ground,
Grey the hand that broke it down.
Ask the valley where they went.
The sands sift on. The stone is spent.