Stone, they call it.  Rock, they call it.  They speak of it as though it was of as little life as a smith’s anvil or the bones of yesterday’s dinner.  They see beauty in the trumpery of glittering glass and gold, in the brief fluting colours of flowers, in some curve of body or shape of brow… they know nothing of the true beauty of the Earth’s heart.  They have never seen light dancing over shawls of ribboned rock or seen the sunset’s colours shade through stone… or felt stone’s enduring strength: a strength that will outlast all mortal pain.