The stones are singing; singing tales of long ago when they were ancient. Heroes, leaders, warriors of times past; legends and myths. Teaching the lands history.

In a circle the monoliths stand singing, their great forms no longer as straight or proud. Tilting toward the earth from whence they came, mourning those companions who have fallen, the sky raining stone. Their bodies lie at the singers feet, a reminder of the past. A forecast for the future.

But only if the songs cease.

A new refrain, louder, including those who are stationed apart from the circular sanctuary. Different voices rise as pure energy, telling the tale to all who will listen.

But no one can hear. No one but the stones and the sky, into which they tower. Soldiers strike upward with swords. Tell the tale, defend the fallen. Sing. Always sing.

Do not let the songs cease.

Sing to each other, to the sun, stars, moon. To the clouds, to the lightning. Welcome day with song; greet night with lilting tune; speak to all forms of weather, cry out to Nature to listen.

Feel each nuance of stoneskin with the medley, reminisce how each came to be; arrowscar, fireburn, priestblood, bonebreak. Reminisce, remember, retell, recall. Tell the tale and always sing.

The stones stand, monoliths and lintels together, station stone, heel stone, altar stone, bluestone - all are as one in their formation. No one - none of those who come to watch, and stare, in awe and wonder - no one will ever admit to hearing the stones sing.

Unless the songs cease.

Stonehenge: the Singing Stones