Firm upon his place, he stands.
Resolute in his actions, he pushes.
A boulder, obstacle, stone,
For any whom move him from his ideals.
He know that his actions,
His words,
His morales, his values,
Are right.

How does he know, he asks himself, he wonders?
Simple, that they may make others joyful,
That they hold happiness in abundance,
And last for a lifetime.
Isn't that what defines Good?

And he stays, the rock upon which many lean,
The strength and courage to look to.
But when the rain falls from the heavens,
Even stone will cry.

Little tears,
So slight,
But there they are.
With the rain, he lets them fall,
Dimunitive drops, concealed.

But when stone cries,
Who is he to lean on?
What is the steady one he is to cry to?
Of course, simple, who else,
But his closest friends?

Quick moments of relapse,
Sudden, he needs but lean shortly.
Before the last raindrop hits the ground,
He is that stone again,
Standing for everything he believes.




Penned by my hand on the 11th of Halitus, in the year 538 AD.