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Weathered, grey,

arising from the channel of a valley stream

The tree line above softens the sunlight

that falls on the standing stone

The land still weeps, grieving for the unity of long ago

Remembering when voices ceased to speak the words of peace

Like the mountain ridge from which it fell,

fragmented in a violent age

The water's edge where all would gather as one

Transformed by hatred into killing fields

From upon the rock, with speech like fire,

came a prophet's condemnation

They filled the fields, they sent the call for war

Bearing the hemlock seed to scorn the hardwood hills

From the south they came to conquer all

To claim the soil of the northern Algonquian lands

Set forth the birds of prey aloft with seed

To propagate them for this victory

To bring starvation in the age to come

Their trees will blight and wither in the sun

With eternal eyes, the wilderness cried

A sigh of desperation from the earth

Amidst the great despair a voice then spoke:

"Go forth, my brothers - procure a feast of poisoned flesh

Our enemies will gorge into their final sleep

As they perish in their slumber, we preserve our way of life"

A procession of gluttonous dead, swollen in the midsummer sun

Drifts past the rock on their course to the southland to never return

The conquering was never meant to be

Beneath Stigwanish came no victory

With heavy hearts for those among the hills

The forest weeps for man, who blindly kills

Lament for all that echoed through the land