THE PROCESSION

Four, four.
Who are the four that go?
In black, in red, in blue.
Here they stand, alone in twilight.
And four go down.
Do four ascend?
But no, there is no fourth. But three.
And a stone in the night.
There is no fourth
And the stones must mend
A secret kept, and gone away
The Earth to swallow -
There is no fourth, and soon, no third.

Flowers for an unquiet rest.
And turned away, that sullen face.
A tomb of stone, and none for ink-
White-carved face.
Gone then to silence
And the unquiet sleep of untrue death.
Who is that fourth? Who there sleeps?
A stone unmarked, the black-clad one?

Sussurance. A sussurance of shadows.
No more.
The whispering ache of a living death.
Shadows, merely, beneath that door.
No less.
The Engine's unquiet grave.

But who sleeps beneath that stone?
Who is that fourth?
Stone, blood, breath and bone.
Naught but marble, a statue's face.
What rain pours through a statue's mouth?
Only water, choked with mud.

THE CONVERSATION OF STATUES

Roots creep into cold stone
Moss that comes unwanted.
That eats at blank-eyed faces.
Rain that falls, cursed, uncalled.
And sweeps the Engine free of dust.

Who there, stands beneath the eaves?
His eyes plucked out by time and moss?
What is that hand in chisel-wrought robes,
With runes on breast and head unbowed?

No one. That he might have been -
Or someone, his cloak hung arrogantly
On a granite back - Warlord, serf or God-
They are marble now - and wet, in the rain.

What is that whisper? What is that sigh?
The mouth makes music of the waters.
And pours symphonies of floods through lips.
Speaking without stony breath.

Stone. Aiakon d'Murani, there - and Fain.
Sing and chatter beneath grimy lintels.
The Feyranti in stone gibber for the Warlord
And taunt the Mages who hide away.

Nonsense, gibbering, the statues whisper-
Stone given voice. Remember, for we were
Once you. And are, no more, but stone and rain,
And perhaps, no more. But stone. Then rubble.

THE STONE CHILD

The shining ones, the light-wreathed ones.
Watch, watch, they come. We are patient.
We of stone.
Watch, they come - wrapped in gold. In silver.
The angel-oathed, the zealots of Celest.
We turn no cheek, but call out fire -
Sparkling raging, runes ablaze -
Screaming. Watch, who there comes?

Wrapt in mud, veiled in black.
Who touches us that we are to dust,
And naught? Who is that who lives,
And yet speaks and whispers to our bones?

Open now, the stone and dust scream.
Wet with rain. Open. Open the door
That those beneath might howl. Unquiet grave.
And the light devoured - angels fallen.
But what is that writing in the Earth?

Wings. What is that which rots? Wings. Feathers
Become hide and the Earth-mage laughs. Laughs.
And who is born? A child? The stone-child, who
capers and gibbers and would fly. But cannot,
And is chained. Our child.

And then silence, and a stop to the rain.

THE RIVER-BRIDGE

Hands that grasp and mouths that speak,
In nonsense words. Moaning and grasping at the tires
And our chariot-wheels. Ill-mannered as ladies mince
On spiked shoes. Lifting silks and velvets as they pass.
And who are these, then, unquiet not-kin of a living place?
They pass and watch. Sightless eyes, whimpering mouths.
And watch. What is this then, a ship from the west?
Or a scaled form. Who passes? They, the unquiet kin, they-

The Countess d'Murani passes beneath her form. Stone,
Glancing perhaps behind her or ahead. Stench,
The scent of rotting fish, the smell of the bridge.
How it creaks and moans! Delightful or dreadful. But!
The bells, and all souls ringing those steel, a sighing moan.
Did that form speak? Did that marble groan?
Statues are silent. Velvet, silk. They hurry on. She leaves.

What is that sail in the west? No living thing.
What is that cap on the head without a face? Unliving. Unreal.
And his eyes that turn like fiery onyx: kin? No kin.
None to us with dust-stopped mouths and glowing rune. None.
And she who bears our face stops and looks - thief!
Return to us your face - it is ours. What right have the living
Who go about with faces, daring to move. Come unto stone.
Come unto the purity and the silent watch.

THE ENIGMA

Pulled Himself into nothing and
then paint. All is paint and blue, but
the candle. Which has become grey. And
knowing not the question, we have naught.
Answers, now. Black cold where there was
light. And wisdom. But now there is no
spark. In the dark, all becomes grey and
mummery, save
The gilding. We crushed the faeleaf fine
with paupers gold, and painted fine question
marks upon His ephemeral skin. Blue for the
card, crushed with an urchin's bone. There is
nothing here, see? Painted in festival, His
card. Nothing more, crushed like crimson
beads in the dust then
And nothing. Empress, Hangedman. Pictures on
the wall. Questions fade.

THE LIVING

We who live and watch.
We silent in the stone.
Not whispering. But silent.
An unstirred dust, that rubble.
That lies beneath the House.
Those unquiet bones who whisper.
But not we the silent, the stone.
The waiting.

THE RITUAL

GEBURAH
Strong arms, strong - marble. Still. Stone pours over
our mouth, wet and fluid. We who guard know the truth-
No marble this. Unknowing, beastly - deathly. Skin to
stone and then nothing but
The watch. Who watches, but
MALKUTH
That roots us, hear us, do we not scream? Silent mouths
full of dust and bleeding from these marks in our
chests. You who stand beneath us, will one day join us
and
NETZACH
This beauty, this beauty that fades, and ten thousand
cracks. Goodbye, lover. Goodbye, brother. My mother, my
hearing good
HOD
And all is still. But nothing, and our faces, marble-cheeked
and rosy. Unreal, that face, yet eternally lovely til the moss
creeps down our throats
TIPHERET
Goodbye, goodbye.