With hell and all above the time does tick,
And sweeps the old without all care or poise.
It weakens all the lands adorned with sick,
And stifles cries of everlasting noise.
Our faithful foe will wear away the sand,
And harden minds of children turned to knaves.
With gentle stroke he wrinkles face and hand,
And ties our figure closer to our graves.
Alas, there is but one he can’t erase,
Which opened hearts and minds have saved again:
The marble stone of sculpture left in place,
All paint to brush and author’s ink to pen.
In spite of death our legacy remains,
For art and all creation will sustain.