This place the stones can live

I will come with you today,
and see what you have made,
I know I will not like it,
I don't care what you paid.

The greenest grass I love,
the clearest skys I need,
the purest mud around,
trying to eat my feet.

I lived here all my life,
I cared for all this land,
every life I have nurtured,
has long since bit my hand.

I know I ought to return,
the energy, time and life,
I've won all my prizes,
for all my pain and stife.

I'll have to let go soon,
The ground sucking me in,
to let the earth eat me up,
now your arm still I cling.

The stones are just grey,
from here it looks plain,
it's all so dead and still,
just to keep out the rain.

Closer I see the details,
familiar intricate gabels,
hand-carved magic-beasts,
my favourite local fabels.

Inside the light gets in,
between a forest of trees,
stone ofcourse, grey bark,
branches lost of leaves.

You knew me well my dear,
to create such a place,
perhaps too well I fear,
I think I'll look around.

The stones are no longer stones,
I see what you have done,
This one has a lions head,
big teeth and lolling tongue.

These pillars are not stone,
they're threads of woolen string!
How do they hold the roof up,
or just hang from the ceiling?

What powers of strange magic,
you turn hard stone to soft,
gentle healing, soft music,
my white-winged angels aloft.

This place is not dead stone now,
what a wonderful gift you give,
my place of final resting,
where even stones can live!