In one hundred years who will there be left
To cry after we suffer nature’s theft?
Who will still endure erosions of time
Besides through great deeds carved in stone and rhyme?
But every rock fades back into green Earth.
And every song slips away from its worth:
And all is erased – the good and the bad:
All who were happy, or angry, and sad.
A smooth, sweeping wind is all that still sings.
Voices in worn minds now barely still ring.
And soon it is gone – like all those now past.
The greatest of greats even can’t all last.
When this page is dust, so will I too go
To dust in the wind, and then I shall know.