Stonehenge Poem by George Murdock

What can be said to the stones
the deaf blocks unyielding to tenderness.
Question them and expect to be assailed
by a tract, by a jingoistic reply
Expect to come away bruised
broken by the heedless conformity
lines crossing the heart of the crooked sky
no more relevant to this vital world
than their acrimonious retorts
to your soft pleading queries
What can be said to a grieving mother?
asking softly why her son is dead,
that she is insincere in her puzzlement?
of the craggy forms
of emanations of nonsense
blatherings from a hidden teleprompter
grasping reason and feeling
ripping them with archless grace
with stoic poise and scrubbed stone
through piles of rubble, treaties, and rotting flesh
explaining with monolithic droll
with guards and fences to protect
their preeminence
why sanguine tears must pour into the basin
below the blood gutters
along with the seeds of a nation and
why it is necessary for death and sacrifice
be accepted without complaint