The past—
moth-wings, dust-thin,
dissolving at touch—
markings
worn thin
as river stones,
voices replaced
by the wind—
only faint rustles
remain—
blended into
the silence of time—
who remembers
the hands
that built
the forgotten roads,
the scratch
of ink
before it dried
on a forgotten parchment.

Somewhere,
a hand
once carved truth
into stone—
now the rain
speaks of it
but no one listens.