I am a story woven without a pen, A heavy curtain for the halls of men. Thousands of threads cross to make my face, Bringing soft warmth to a cold stone space

Caesar complained to Brutus about this pointy thing

A sacred stone both smooth and green, in ancient courts and temples I am seen.

I steal, I fix, I twist, I trade, a hammer forged from the tricks I’ve made. And with a sprig both small and slight, I stole away the god of light.

Sleeping Beauty pricked her finger, now I grow and linger. Upwards the tower I go, blossoming and blooming until a hundred years later, there comes her beau.