were written over, before long,
by the second, third, and soon
they were trodden under, gone,
lost among the soil, turned, strewn,
that had lain untouched so long.
Some history can't be preserved.
For though there was no rain, no wind,
no trespassers who observed
the trace of glory, and who sinned,
the footsteps could not be conserved,
and so will never be again.
It's obvious, upon its face,
and truthful, too, make no mistake.
It holds no quiet saving grace,
but regret that lingers, aches.
First footsteps made, and then erased:
it's we who ruin what we make.