The Language of Stone

Stone keeps its secrets in the grammar of centuries, each fault line a word we cannot speak, mountains holding their breath for millennia.

The river carves its confession into granite— soft water insisting, again and again, until the rock surrenders its truth.

We walk on the backs of sleeping giants, their dreams crystallized, their silence the only music older than language.

And when we are dust, the stones will still be remembering, patient as monuments, faithful as tombs.