Trilogy
It lies buried beneath the trees, cracked, its two halves barely touching.
One day, when a team of scholars with tools pries it from shady, earthy oblivion, they will remark upon its brokenness in hushed, hopeful tones. Next, they will remark upon its whiteness, and someone in the company who cannot dig, but who is there because she knows the words, will say that west and slightly south lies a tomb carved of the same brightness: a sarcophagus for two, unsplit and unopened. With great strain, she will take the heavy halves in her hands and pray.
Wind will rush in from the sea, down the passes: the memory of a blade.
And the stone, pieces fitted, will catch the lamp's flame in the sun.