The moon calls the pristine sea-water, Which in turn, reaches to the sky to answer. The wind sings of this sultry exchange, While the poor rocks, Constantly thrashed by the falling tides, Can only silently sigh.
Fret not, little child, The monsters under your bed are long gone, The next monsters you must fear Lurk within the minds of men.
It enslaves their heart, And lives off their soul, Construing their figures beyond recognition. Turning them into a shell of their former person.
Fret not, little child, Such monsters are a part of life, They live within us all and live all too well, For why else would poets of old admire your innocence, Your childlike wonder, lost to the seas of time?
For what can Man do, Except follow its predecessors today? Regardless of the path, It all ends with the grave.
Till the heart ceases to beat And the hand ceases to move, Till the corpse has no heat And the mind achieves no feat.
Yet even beyond the grave All men are remembered in some way And it is through their ideas, Legendary and brave.
We know not their life, We know not their strife, At times, we know not even their name. But we know what they did.
A legacy remains.
It will only follow, Through sickness and health, Through poverty and death In hopes that it can even live to compare To the might of those who left it behind.
