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The rock has no known disease,
But yet succumbs to water, breeze.
These are worn away by love;
In, around, below, above;
For love has power to conquer these,
The rock, the water, and the breeze.
But what of love, is love secure?
Shall it, of all these things, endure?
Alas, love, too, must fade away,
As must the sun, the moon, the day.
None from this edict may appeal;
Death is Life’s Achilles heel.
The rock, the water, and the breeze,
All must die by their degrees.
Love, the day, the moon, the sun
—All must perish, every one.
When these have sung their last refrain,
One thing only shall remain,
Which nothing brings unto its knees.
Time has not of enemies.
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