So much of what was written has been lost
And yet we think so much of what remains.
Time marches on at an enormous cost
But it cannot be stopped. What it retains
Is not the best, the holiest, the high,
But rather that which happened to be placed
By lucky chance in caches that stayed dry
While all around their fellows were erased
By time's great flood of minutes and of hours
Devastating all it touched. Do not
Imagine there are undiscovered powers
Or mighty secrets hidden in the thought
That we have lost; what's lost are hopes and dreams
We keep the knowledge sans the human themes.
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