An epic

A hundred years or thousand,
The solitude shall prevail;
And the silence holds on,
Like a lonely star on a smog filled night.

Your despondence is all prevailing;
It is a burning flaming sun in a parched
Land of dry rivers and drier eyes;
Unbecoming, bequeathed insolence.

As if a twilight was an end;
And cities grow from three stones,
Hedged by greed and faith,
Till the hands that built it become frail.

The legends are written in cursive,
Flowing like old blood, told
As myths, sung; And all
that remains is a fond tale.

Another step, and another,
You are now but memories
That I shall hold till I last,
And then who knows what shall remain?