It rose beneath our feet,
A rock, a testament to days we lost,
It trembled with our hearts,
And shook us free from selfish dreams,
To fix our eyes above,
Below,
Around,
Outside ourselves,
To care about the colour of the sky,
Or the way grass smells in the morning,
Or the intricate patterns in an insect's wing,
And our horizon grew,
And fell out from our grasp,
And ran towards the sun,
Which began to rise in the mornings,
Set in the evenings,
And every so often,
Mingle with the structures of our own hands,
And we began to sing,
And dance,
And whisper sweet nothings,
And hush our hatred,
For want of innate love - that we'd forgotten how to find.