An alabaster man
stands unmoving in the withered garden,
underneath the hidden stars
and the glow of a blurred half-moon

An age of bitter cold
has cracked His skin,
stolen His right hand

A memory frozen in palestone flesh
For hazel eyes,
and luminescence

If ever they venture close enough,
they hear His whisper,
like running water,
and slink back into the leafless trees,
He had nothing to say after all