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Already old, when we find them.
Already marked by a hundred winds,
Deep-grooved by a thousand hammering rains.
The stones have long memories,
But they do not speak.
They do not tell us who brought them here.
At night, we sleep on the long grass
In the shadows of their circle,
And our dreams are dark and strange.
In the small hours, I hear a voice crying:
“It is many miles from the West Woods.
Many miles from Orcadie…”
