The mind is still. The gallant books of lies
are never quite enough.
Ideas are a whirl of mazy flies
over the pigs' trough.
Words are my matter. I have chipped one stone
for thirty years and still it is not done,
that image of the thing I cannot see.
I cannot finish it and set it free,
transformed to energy.
I chip and stutter but I do not sing
the truth, like any bird.
Daily I come to Judgement stammering
the same half-word.
So what's the matter? I can understand
that stone is heavy in the hand.
Ideas flit like flies above the swill.
I crowd with other pigs to get my fill.
The mind is still.
- Ursuka K. Le Guin