In time all meanings fade. The days of glory,
Now forgotten, buried long ago,
Dead for generations, their founding story
Erased from consciousness like summer snow…
Perhaps we will succeed in preservation,
Enduring for millennia or so,
No more than that. There'll be a generation
Destined by their seedtime not to know.
Embrace it then, the truth that even this,
Now so much a part of us, must go,
Caught tumbling on the edge of the abyss,
Eventually pulled in by the undertow.
Dear history, we hope to pass you on,
And so a bit of us, too, when we're gone.
Yet more than that no yearning can bestow.