End of Lineage
Their will be none to follow after
my footsteps tramped in the wheat,
no surname left to hear the laughter
no eye to see, no heart to beat.
Time will never stop its running
with sun and moon and touch of heat
like old stones lie in their sunning
not caring for the strong or weak.
By the drought or in the flood
storms of winter's wind-full passing
flowers of May and October’s mud
will matter to only lineages lasting.
Neither a hair nor drop of blood
not shade of eye or crest of bone.
Of myself I leave only love
and not my name to carry on.
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