I live,
I make my mark,
I die.
This mark,
merely a smudge,
washed away
by the first
light rain.
So, who was I,
this man,
this me?
How will they know?
How will they see?
The answer to these questions
are beyond me,
as I shall not exist
beyond my time in this space,
but live only
in my time itself,
endlessly for ever,
in my words I write
and my deeds done,
and in the minds
of those who
will remember
til my stories,
they be lost
in a time,
in a space,
in my world,
in this place.
