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.