Time is the river that carves and claims,
A patient hand shaping mountains to plains,
Beneath its flow, crowns rust and fall,
Silent and slow, consuming all.

The towers rise, the cities sprawl,
Voices shout and banners call,
But every stone, with stubborn pride,
Will crack and fade, reclaimed by tide.

See how the wild oak grips the hill,
Roots winding deeper, quiet and still.
No roar nor clang, no harsh decree--
Yet roots will linger where empires flee.

For Time wields not blade or claw,
But roots and rot and seasons' thaw,
It bends no knee, it needs no throne,
Yet claims all dominion as its own.

Moss will crawl where thrones decay,
Ivy binds what kings betray.
Time endures in leaf and bark,
Where cities fall to dust and dark.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 12th of Ivolnos, in the year 7 AC.