Rock

Even the soft are hard,

The boulder or the shard;

The pebble or stone, all scarred

With the stylus and the cloth

And the wings of the moth.

Still up the mountains thrust

Into skies of water and dust,

Then crumble at last to sand,

Until the flatness of the land

Betrays no fleck of bone,

Nor relic of brick or stone,

And no one left to be alone.