As Fit for the Fire as Any Little Clockmaker

Our words become our monuments
Even as we disown the building of them,
Even as we borrow the stones.

For example, when the illustriously
Lustreless speaker completed a degree
And flew free to the Black Forest

And the old grounds of wars ancient
And recent, there stood an entertainment
Complex reconstructing Colonium,

Although the original fort stones
Had long since gone to walled huts
And cathedrals, the cathedrals

Bombed by the allies to the ground,
Under which hid more well-dressed stones
Of the original, colonial Cologne.

How to explain the urge to inscribe
With a pencil on a napkin a dictum,
A prayer tucked between the stones there?