You strange story from childhood
whose origins I know not—
I remember you said we should
be guardians of the woods
of crisis wrought.
So long ago, I can’t recall
if the story’s birth was true
but thinking back, above else all
I was given the wherewithal
to become a statue.
A wounded woman, arms severed
stumbles through an empty night.
Her life almost untethered
with a mind that weathered,
through the quiet she would recite:
“I am stone, I cannot bleed.”
Power in the whisperer.
She could walk with no hurried speed
but as she spoke there wasn’t need,
her mind was there to help her.
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