All the Letters

All the letters are now lost, Fallen down the slope of time, And their record has been tossed Without reason, sense or rhyme. From the summit of the mountain To the bottom of the sea There is not a single fountain Which might quench their thirst to be. All is thought to have been written, Some remembered and much lost To forgiveness, deeply bitten By time’s serpent, hate or frost. What is destined for surviving In the annals of our age May not have the gift of thriving On the lips of bard and sage. To the darkness of our morrow Times of glory must be fated, Like most memories of sorrow Whether bright and new or dated. Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com