As it reaches an arm
toward the clouds, the stone
catches a glimmer
of light from the morning star.
It’s not a spell or enchantment,
but the innocence of beauty,
revealed in form.
Yet how can this beauty survive
in a nightmarish world?
The chisels chip the truth,
but a candle burns inside stone.
You can hold the morning star
in your hands like a child
caught in a lie, but you can
never imagine the mystery
of the creation or that
paradise where the sun
never scorches, and stars never fall
or flame out in the sky, where there is no
birth or death, and the shadows
never touch the fossilized bones
of people and animals,
their screams pressed into stone.
That early star is not for us.