Song of songs.
Justified before it was writ.
A Sultan strolling stops then sits.
Waiting for the rising of his favorite clock,
he eyes it precariously, then kicks away the rock.
Picking up steam as it rolls, tumbling through a desert snow.
Over sandy dunes a sun rises, warming, cracking the stone.
Harder and harder it tries to roll, so the Sultan kicks it again.
Further away it tries to move knowing, it should give in.
Down slopes of bronze it falls; then begins to fall and split.
A young boy sees and picks it up then begins polishing it.
To the Sultan he exclaims, "Why must you kick this rock?"
Tightening his turban fully about his head he says,
"That rock is not our rock, it is already dead."
Full of pride the boy claims,
"I have watched its tumbling and now it is mine."
Lowering his head the Sultan sigh's,
"Can you not see this storm is time...
That rock doesn't belong, please, let it pass by."
Still, the boy doesn't hear a word from this man of the sands.
Now as winds blow harder they cover the best laid plans.
As the Sultan rejoices and breaks into song;
"There rock is not our Rock, this, we've known all along.
Still you polish away at that crumbling, ruined stone.
Please, set it aside and leave it alone."
But plans are plans and they all come to pass.
Some even reach in too soon and never, ever ask.
So keep this tale in mind before polishing an old ancient ruin.
Yesterdays decisions are tomorrows future, gone way too soon.
A.o.R.
