I pity the past.
But what’s the use?
Kingdoms gone and empires perished.
We humanities erected monuments for ourselves,
But even the broken heritage themselves are mortals,
Subjected to decay, age and eventual death.
Unto what do we pray?
Those little crafts made with our nimble fingers?
Or the combustion of air that’s warm between our fingers?
All to ashes.
All to vanity.
But within the lingering heat,
Flames are ignited.
New erections of humanities bloom,
Upon the bones of the past.