I sit on the banks of the dried out river.
Water hasn't graced this land in eons
yet the remains of a river still exist,
the remains of a hard life's work continuing.
Will I have that same effect?
Will my life's works continue,
like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond?
I can only hope that they will.
Perhaps that is the hope of all men.
To live forever, even if only in memory.
Will these words leave ripples?
Or will they sink without a trace?
I look out into the distance
and see the sun setting far away.
I wish I could have seen this river
when the waters still flowed.