My name is etched into the bank's clay,
            all of the molecules of impure water
            will erode my letters from such a marker.
The trees die, and so do their carvings,
falling to a moldy pile of a weakened sappling.
              I will be forgotten.
              No effort can leave my name in
                     ink upon all of the trees,
                            and their trees
                                  and so on
                                           ad infinitum.
I will die; so will my name-
            How vain am I to think I am special?