The stones still hum where feet once trod,
their weight a hymn, their shape a nod.
The towers fallen, the forests gone,
yet memory lingers in silent song.
The past is carved in mountain’s face,
in buried bones, in empty space.
It hides in myths, in tales retold,
a fire of giants grown faint and cold.
But close your eyes and you may hear,
the voices of another year.
Not gone, not dead, not turned to dust —
the past still speaks, and calls to us.
It asks no chains, it begs no crown,
it only whispers: write me down.
For time is not a line that flees,
but circles deep, like rooted trees.
So walk with care, O child of clay,
the past walks with you every day.
Its breath is yours, its path is cast,
you are the seed of all that’s past.
More Poems from the Past below.