Time stored all, but kept its council.
Wrote no history of importance
to the ancient forests,
the fathomless oceans.
Aeons passed, A flame went to fire,
flickered briefly, a blink in time,
whilst multi hued moths gathered with
wild mischief in their wings.
An ending came by and by, a closing of
the account, but did not scar the tree,
or venture where sea and sand are met;
and the Magi remained no wiser than the
humble shepherds on the hill,
who had not calculated,
but knew the way.
Metal skeletons still bestride the land,
silenced lines extending, seeking to
communicate with what is no longer there;
like the white horse carved into
the hillside which is only resting.