Stone Gospel

a poem

The stone is a psalm that the silence can’t smother,
a hymn from the hands of a long-buried mother.
It arcs through the air like a birthright retold,
a song made of soil, unpolished and bold.

It hums of the ages when flesh met the sword,
when empires collapsed at the weight of the horde.
It echoes in chambers where justice once cried,
then finds its own rhythm where martyrs have died.

Rocks are sacred—not rubble, not waste—
they are grief turned to grit, and to grit turned to haste.
They are memory’s knuckles, clenched tight with resolve,
a question that power will never absolve.

So when a stone flies, it is not just thrown—
it is carried by centuries etched in the bone.
It is every lost language, each shattered tongue,
a lullaby hurled from the breath of the young.

From Standing Rock rivers to Jenin's defiance,
from Soweto’s revolt to the mothers of science
who birthed revolution from kitchen and street—
a stone becomes justice where weapons compete.

No shield? Then the mountain will rise in your hand.
No sword? Then the gravel will help you to stand.
You hold the whole planet when nothing else stays—
the ground is your witness, your weapon, your praise.

And the earth, bruised and beaten, still dares to speak back—
not with missiles or bombs, but with flint in the crack.
It whispers: resist.
It thunders: return.
And the stone becomes fire
in a world meant to burn.