Oh, the dust and the dust and the dust
The ages of neglect by the
Cover of rust
The stone was alive, he could feel it
Breathing beneath his hands
On the table in the kitchen
By the light from the lamp
Burning high with olive oil

He touched the stone, like ice from the sky
Like ice from the eyes of the hangman
He touched the stone and wondered at it
Caressed the coarse rock and was humbled by it
And he knew not why
Why the others hated the stone from the sky
This gem that felt warm amidst all the cold
The breathing and pulsing of life in the stone

And he put out the lamp and crawled into bed
And dreamt of the stone and a tree
And the tree grew up from the stone
Watered with blood in a watering can
The blood of the pen
The pride of the poet lashed to his misery
And up into heaven, a fathomless tree
Where it bore forth wonderful fruit
The fruit of the stars from the womb of the Earth

And he awoke amidst the shudders and sighs
The tears that drip-drip from a faucet of eyes
And he saw the poem written before him
By the olive oil lamp in the kitchen
Of a seed blown far by the winds of the spaces
To the far-off planet and its secret places
To the home of the anguished and longing
The hope of the hopeless, the name of the nameless