Plague of folly

Bred under the rock,

we took stones as bread,

our breaths were sharp,

sharper than swords.

We bathed in the clay,

baked our skin with the sun,

burnt sons of the sun,

the stronger sons of time.

Our scribes wrote on the shore,

epistles and mysteries on our hearts.

Ancient words impacting sight,

we saw farther, than eagles.

Took my bed of stone, 

eastward, the land of the sages.

Shared my bread them,

they called it a stone,

Read epistles to them,

they missed it.

Who are these people?

Is wisdom not common?

Perhaps it's a plague,

the plague of folly.