What we build upon this plain will grace
it for eternity, a silent ring
of watchers carved from stone.
We who know the paths of moon and star
must show the way. Thus we lead
our people forward, patient and ponderous.
We persist, though the weight be ponderous,
moving stones through the grace
of ropes and trees and weights of lead.
Throw the lines through the ring,
spread them out in a star,
and pull into place each standing stone.
The carvings on every stone
fit them together, perfect and ponderous,
tongues fitting into grooves. The day star
rises and sets; its golden rays grace
our work as we raise the ring.
Our eyes follow where they lead.
Quickly now, throw the lead!
Take the measurements, settle the stone
into its space. Every part of this ring
must be precise, however ponderous.
Only then will its hidden grace
reveal the place and passage of each star.
Solstice and equinox, moon and star—
this great circle will someday lead
the way, keeping time by its grace.
All true things are known by stone,
whose wisdom is grown ponderous
with its rounding of the year's ring.
At last, the bells ring!
The light shines; white flowers star
the green grass. The ponderous
task is done. Where we have led,
our descendants will follow, guided by stone
and the ghostly remnants of our grace.
I step into the finished ring to bury the lead.
My soul is light, my body heavy as a star stone.
I can die happy now, embraced by their ponderous grace.