They tell us that the spirit prays
with groans more rich than words,
while tongues of fire, dove-winged birds
could shatter heaven any day,
and we are quickened by that grace,
and strive to trace the inward
wind that shatters chaos into chords
and sculpts earth’s dust into a face.
Yet you still wait in stony care—
no morning breaks upon your eyes;
you guard a grave, no peace atones
for all the nights you have watched here:
waiting for the dead to rise
to the shouts of interceding stone.
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