Whispering centuries, how was it that we were created the way we are?,
Howling, bawling, shrieking, memories down the hard cold hallways of incorruptible stone,
Some call us the gatekeepers, because our sight is focused and far reaching,
silent witnesses of the monks who first sang the consciousnesses of kings to heaven,
as if the singing were a guide to god, the stepping stones, the self creating pathway,
guiding the soul onwards, through its own inner dimensions, to a greater reality yet unknown.
We too, hear those songs, they sing in our claws, they excite our wings, like snow flurries.
They create in us, these desires, to take flight, through the streets of the cities.
How we would take flight, with those songs to guide us,
haunted by our own whisperings and gigglings, disfigurements of the creator's mind
and an eternity of absurdities, experiments, hideous imaginings, the freedom of expression,
a universe in transformation, and here we are, deposited, erected, disguarded, it would seem to us,
While we remained, sentinels, guards, weathered,
Beneath the longest winter nights, flash flood of stars, and trails of silver tailed light
Leading us home, to where before time began.
Take the first train of thought and we are made,
From the holy consciousness of the plan as yet unlit,
We were created from the darkness and emerged into the cycles of light and dark.
Our existences go beyond any book, any acceptable recordings,
Your voices to us, are murmurings on the winds of the creator's mind,
Your souls like small flickering flames that line the castle walls,
Or ignite and take flight, a moment before vanishing, into the mists on the moors.
Although we may be seen adorning coffins, guarding steeples, as silent guardians,
We are slow to progress, into our existences, we harbour a slowly developing dream,
We come, like voices through the rain, our explorations of time along a fine mist,
but enough, of our thought, for we may only dream of escape every 500 years,
moss covered, sand engrained, we are slowly torn apart by moisture,
and we too, are aware of our own transformations, and centuries old, restorations.
So, I remain, subject to the sun, the wind and the rain, yet never touching them.
See how we, born from thought, now turn faceless, our weathered concern,
Our songs are centuries old, sang from the same skylines, bordered by the knowledgeable,
We do not see beyond the horizons of our making, our silence facing the one direction,
Until we disintegrated back into the lost histories, more histories than are known
And all amidst the blanket backdrops of day and night, the sky that sets the stage
That cities play themselves out upon, never to take wing, within the burden of the stone.
