Sleep on under the stone, sleep deep under the hill. The word is in my mouth again. Let it sleep. I climbed up in the dark hour, the frost was ash underfoot, to the old stone on the hilltop, older than the town. I laid my black hand on it the way you'd lay a coal, and under all that winter I felt the iron turn. Sleep on under the stone, sleep deep under the hill. The word is in my mouth again. Let it sleep. It rose through root and granite, it pushed against the lid. It knew the name I carried, it knew the road there blind. By morning it would finish what I still called mine, with no blade in my fingers, no red on my sleeve. Sleep on under the stone, sleep deep under the hill. The word is in my mouth again. Let it sleep. The frost died off the stone. The warm climbed up my arm. The hill leaned in beneath me, all shoulder under strain. One yes would split the hillside. One yes would bury the years. The word stood up inside me and waited at my mouth. Hand away, hand away, leave the last word underneath. Hand away, hand away, let the old hill keep its sleep. Hand away, hand away, the last word comes back with me. Hand away, hand away, let the old hill keep its sleep. I took my hand from the stone. The frost grew back across it. First smoke rose in the valley. They'll say what they've been saying. Nothing woke. Hand away, hand away, leave the last word underneath. Hand away, hand away, let the old hill keep its sleep. My hand is black. The stone is still. Is it time?
