Stones, strewn beneath the sun on a quiet hill;
The wind rustles among the grass.
Reverend bones turned to dust and dirt,
Artifacts of pottery and bronze waiting to be classed and counted,
Should that be their fate—
Else lie and fade and be forgotten,
Revert to clay and tin and copper ore.
The ghost in an inscription cries in a forgotten tongue: behold my works!
And is carried by the wind
Far beyond the count of centuries and years.
Seasons chase and pass anon,
Caring not for bleaching stone.
While bees make love to flowers and lizards bask,
There is always an alternative