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Stone's Age
This rough rock in my hand,
old, ancient, silent as sand.
waiting patiently, noble and bold,
carrying secrets never told.
How many places have you seen?
how many people have there been?
nimbly twirling your rough, hard skin?
perhaps inquiring as to secrets within?
your surface carries a soft sheen,
a message undeciphered, what could it mean?
older than the eldest man,
you sing your poem through years in span.
this riddle I may never hear,
wasted on unknowing ears.
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