Gentle Stones

He was far and outside and unseen
when the city wind promised him a song.
He heard music from the Instruments,
ivory chimes and soft iron bells.

"Beauty is before me," he said. "Beauty behind me."

He was far outside the words he'd seen.
He was surprised by his reception.
He hadn't expected the city's growth,
the flower of crystal and stone.

"Beauty is on my right," he said. "Beauty on my left."

Eyes looked at him sideways, mostly,
as if he were too bright to see,
or just a little embarrassing.
No one was quite sure which, or why.

"Beauty is above me," he said. "Below me, dust."

Flowers were strewn in his path,
or leaves maybe. Maybe it was pearls,
Or it could have been rubies.
Plants, or stones, or possibly people.

"Beauty is within me," he said. "No beauty without me."

The earth, soft dappled with roses,
met his sky with leaves and promises.
His mouth was filled with rubies and pearls.
They are gentle stones the pilgrims throw.

B.T. Murtagh