I should have been a bone cold stone,
long interred under loam

But hard and smooth, was turfed by toe
which flinched from flint, then chose

Preferring to secrete me in warmer pocket,
as hard forged ingot found

Then bound to the neck, deep in locket,
as is the want, to be worn around.

A better fate is this, than being long
in bone interred, under lost ground

Red furrows plowed into the pale clay
Grow into mounds of silver stones.

The pitiful broken stone rolled down silently,
this same, once was a real rock.
Now he'd let some hot showers free,
to tell volumes of grief untold.

.