The grinning stone, with cobwebbed covered mouth, laughs silently.
His carved brother under him he throttles violently.
And thus from the same rock they came into reality,
a Cain and Abel evermore wrought in duality.
All lichen clothed, they struggle on the stony parapet;
unending rage and fear locked in a voiceless tête-à-tête.
Forevermore the moment of destruction’s near at hand—
Yet never does he die, nor he receive the cursed brand.
Nor can stone bleed, its blood entreat the God above these two,
nor yet stone flee into the wilderness and there a city hew.
Yet grinning, screaming faces ever face and never move.
Their senseless quarrel never lost nor won can nothing prove.
And in his stony hand an uncarved stone he holds aloft—
prepared as if to fall upon the living flesh that’s soft—
but hard and just as stony is the head that rests below.
Why should that face, in agony, regard that unstruck blow?
Tale Told 