twilight walls

An epic it is, of simple verse,
Its furrows, row upon row.
Its story must be the worst
That mortal man can know.
On walls of polished granite stand,
In twilight's burnt reflection,
The workings of an earthly hand,
Here writ, in mute complexion.
To tell of men who once were here,
But now...who are no more;
No meter, form, or rhyme are clear,

Only syllabled, skeletons of war.

To fill the heart, to move the lips,
And form, with breath the sound;
Which as from mournful mouths it slips
Into the world around,
Says that these who are...no more
Than etchings in a wall,
Live on still...and endure
In the memory of us all.