A long day,
A winding valley,
Between two ancient cliffs.
A song of a sparrow breathes through the air.
A lone traveler,
Along the dusty road,
Formed by man's sweat, blood, and bone.
Living on until it fades.
Nothing in this lonely place,
Will survive the plague of time.
For in each long lost memory,
Everything will die.
The sparrow song stops, stilled by death,
The winding valley loses its shape.
The two towering peaks tumble into weeds,
And what is becomes what was.
