Wandering Stone

A stone awakens, among ruins that breathe little.
It has no hands, yet marks time with an effortless strain.
It advances where the moon dimmed the paths’ old names.
Each step is a memory becoming stone and stain.
Crossing places where no doors exist, only those that hear the wind.
Bridges trembling between sea and sand of another year.
Houses turned to tides of dust, lights barely seen.
Gathering absent voices, keeping them whole in time’s shell.
At last it stops where reality is not home.
Leaving a cold trace, a moon without sound.
Memory revives itself, timidly, within the stone.
And departs again, beyond the borders of what no longer exists.