At first, cheek to stone, I fought fate.
I polished this weight with my efforts
from the bottom up, whittled away every spur
of slate, dug a path of precision deep
into this mockery.

I know now that a smooth stone
is quick to return to its birthplace,
quicker to join in with the laughter of Hell.
I made a mistake.

I take no pride in this punishment.
I look at this stone, and it is
perfect. I made it so because I had
no other choice.

But when I return again to the bottom
of this hill, I will root myself down
into the blessing of cool earth
and dream of a world made of water.