One-Hundred years from now, what will I be?
Hopefully remembered in grand-child’s strong memory.
Two-Hundred years from now, things are different.
I am a faint picture on the wall, whose quality they resent.
Three-Hundred years from now, the picture off the wall.
Forgotten and laid to rest, yet do you know the beauty of this all?
For this inglorious succession to happen, to even begin,
I must exist. I question the beginning not, for I understand the end.
The end undeservedly requires a beginning and a middle.
The beginning we learn to walk and finger fiddle;
The middle we learn what it means to live;
The end we learn what it means to give.
We give our last breath to this world.
And with my knuckle curled.
All I ask of my descendants,
Is to be remembered.
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