Echo on the Stones

The echo speaks, a tongue of wind through cracks and lichen.
It tells forgotten names, etched on stone like watery signs.
Memory replies with a whisper that will never cease.
The echo’s tongue weaves slow syllables, a memory reforming.
It marks, by unseen signs, the names lost from stone’s great book.
Each stone becomes a page, each scratch an ink that will endure.
Thus the past breathes names that will not return, yet still remain.
A fleeting song held within the rock’s deep breath.
And the world listens, and the stone recalls who used to be.