Mihailo | Macar

Mihailo smiled. “The darkness is the shadow,” he said. He began to work.

“Why do you weep?” the poet asked.

He did not carve. He unlocked .

Mihailo looked up. His eyes were the color of wet slate. “Because,” he said, “this stone remembers being lava. It remembers the time before bones. And it is so old, so terribly old, that it has forgotten how to hope. I am trying to teach it again.” mihailo macar