White Stone Of The Sun

White Stone Of The Sun
© Surazeus
2026 05 04

When I wash the dirt of ten thousand roads 
off my wounded feet with unholy water, 
my grandmother holds the knife of weird truth 
to carve fresh steaks from cave-demon flesh 
so my father can roast it on the altar 
with fire from the lightning strike he calls down. 

My mother gives me white stone of the sun 
and shows me how to walk where devils dance, 
so I invent new words from languages 
I hear birds use when they eat sheafs of wheat 
which hide me from men with soul-wounded spears 
because my face shines with celestial rage. 

Holding broken stick that fell from the sky, 
I draw oval shape in sand of the beach 
so everyone knows I indicate eggs, 
then they follow me to large cave of shadows 
where thousands of birds with white wings erupt 
in squawking rage as we take eggs to eat. 

While I squat on edge of steep sea-side cliff, 
explaining to stiff grass how bright wind knows 
weird secret of life concealed in soft sand, 
I stare at small rock for ten million years 
till it wobbles and falls into the sea 
where it transforms into leviathan. 

When I hold out my hand and spread my fingers 
to measure distance from high mountain peak 
to the silver moon that gleams behind clouds, 
I invent science of geometry, 
but then forget when I find strawberry vines 
so I fill large basket with blood-red fruit. 

My brother steals one strawberry and runs 
leaping and laughing along fallen log 
where honey bees swarm so he screams in pain 
as he transforms into galloping pig 
that offers itself as great sacrifice 
willing to die so we may eat and live. 

My sister draws marks in sand by the tree 
at breath-long intervals of feral fate 
which calibrates increments of small change, 
then explains to me strange concept of time 
which she invents with delicate concern, 
then shows me how to peel orange of her heart. 

On undulating waves of humming names 
I float through ocean of fortune to claim 
divine right to name all things that exist 
with template label that defines each form, 
then walk back to our small ziggurat home 
where I clack the turtle shell and chant spells.