So much is washed away:
A century of pain
Has buried all who knew,
And made things new again.
So much remains, remains:
A century of woe
Has woven in the stains
Wherever stories go.
So much is overgrown:
A century of grass
Covers the shattered bones
Under the feet that pass.
So much is told, is told:
A century of books
Sifts and then relegates
To where man overlooks.
So much we know in part:
A century of blood
Drowning the human heart
Crushing our cry for God.
So much we can’t escape:
A weary century
Echoes the same old strains
Repeating endlessly.
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