With sunshine warm upon my face,
I look upon the lonely shrine,
where cold stone is all that is left
of these long forgotten names.
And all the long dead promises,
the impassioned weeping and the wails,
the tears that warmed the cold, cold stone
when fond memory knew their tales.
Time has swollowed up their remembrances,
eclipsed the battles in which they passed.
Unnoticed, I stand before them ignorant,
reading hieroglypics from the past.