The Rounded Stones
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They call them "Erratics"
As if their journeys were chosen,
Some aimless wanderlust
Within the stone;
Some aimless wanderlust
Within the stone;
The great rounded rocks
Rolled for a thousand years
By giant walls of looming ice,
To be left where they lay
As the frozen rivers thawed,
Dropped in a distant place
Far from their molten cradles...
A reminder that beginnings
Do not foretell our endings.
