Nothing is said, nothing is done,
Whatever is said and done, belongs
to stone. Written in Solomon's statutes,
it is sealed and sunken and doomed.
The body said, it is winter without cause,
it is a summer void of blooms. The
monsoon comes and passes, it belongs
to no one. Whatever is said and done,
is set to stone. A missive carved into
porous peet, then buried in layers of time.
Nothing is said, nothing is done,
It waits for no one, it waits for a chance
unveiling. Like old dithering Crone sloughing
her layers after a cycle of maid and mother,
washing the taint of worship. The pagan says nothing,
and does nothing, so everything else is forgotten
and saved in stone. The primitive hard disk,
the jargon of old tales. Saying nothing yet
hints at a fount, of truths left unsaid
and undone than revealed to one. The Solomon
songs are the most spurious ones, singing of all
and confirming none. Nothing is said and done.
Nothing is said, nothing is done.
Whatever is said, belongs to no one.
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Something I wrote -- please feel free to comment.
