What We Leave Behind

Beneath the moon’s cold, hollow stare,

I carve my name in dying stone,

A futile mark, a breath withdrawn,

What is memory but a trace of air?

In shadows where we once did stand,

The echoes linger but not for long,

I hear them faint—a fading song,

What is memory but a trace of air?

We dream, we build with trembling grace,

Yet time devours all we claim,

A cycle spun by loss and gain,

What is memory but a trace of air?

For what endures time's embrace,

When even stars turn dim and pale?

And who recalls a vanished name?

What is memory but a trace of air?

So whisper low to silent skies,

Our stories dimmed, lost in time,

Our fleeting lives drift, then gone—

What is memory but a trace of air?