After all, who looks at the primitive rock closely? Who loves him deeply?
when flowers burst forth, dancing, swirling, a palette of provocative perfumes,
when the sprightly spring of nectar-sweet water, gurgles, gushes and merrily sways.
when the vixen sky, distracts with her changing hues, russet-gold to lilac-blue,
when the fruits are bountiful, luscious, juicy,succulent and inviting, is it fair to anyone else?
where the bountiful boughs sigh and moan, as the wind makes love to its emerald leaves,
where the songbird croons with notes of longing to the storm clouds voluptuous with rain,
where the earth is supple, fertile and virtuous, and bursting forth with buds of life,
After all who looks at the rock, who for his part kept his stony silence,
He submits himself to the rain as she washes over him, eroding bits of him to her lover the earth,
He heroically stands the wind and the storm, to shelter the oblivious delicate of the rose bud's lips,
He martyrs himself at the altar of the root, breaks down to feed the salt that sugars the fruit,
But I love him, this rock, this aggregation of time and earth and all encompassing knowing,
I see in him,his nature to take the blistering cold or the callousing heat,
I see in him all the muted colours he wears, testimony to the centuries cocooned within,
I see in him, how in saying nothing he has absorbed all the magic of the universe,
one thing though, how do you move a rock with just a heart?
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