unwashed with centuries,
if peered through,
or yet, into,
would tell stories,
many ages past,
boys washed in birth,
men's ended worth,
echoing into night
with distant rumbles,
preceding tears
holding granite crumbles,
or,
arrow blanketed skies,
carrying tip-rip gifts,
to brave barbarians below,
likely too,
one might see,
a tiny blossoming tree,
watered and cared by three,
all living harmoniously,
but get ahead of ourselves not,
for in this very same spot,
years before that last lot,
twenty-two horses free-spirited their own trot,
chasing cycling sunlight,
settling into stained remains,
shading history's all seeing foresight,
never shattering, she guides the reigns...