“Demons of the Stone”
Across the great expanse
With a raging river below,
Rope bridges try to fly
On the devil-winds that blow.
The River’s mist forms a fog
Into a rainclouds next of kin.
Some fog clings to rocky walls,
Some to the minds of men.
Old trees cling and new ones sprout
From cracks, their shallow home;
Those Bonsais formed and fashioned
By the Demons of the Stone.
Those Demons, seen by native eyes
And often felt in fits of sadness;
Old man and child alike
Have seen visions of their madness.
They toil in shadow, so the stories go,
Trimming Bonsais that have grown;
It is their lot, their payment due,
Those Demons of the Stone.
Tied to stone by mystic chains
Paying debts, ten fold, enhanced.
They asked for the music to be played
And with the devil, —- danced.
D. Thurmond
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