Poem: I Have No Name

In a little grove’s a standing stone:

Half covered by a mossy dress
—All works of man do so regress.
Veneration long forgot,
Entropy’s no longer fought.

Now here inscribed are brilliant deeds—
Only the dead this language reads.

Nothing can change the hands of fate,
Annul the past, make crooked straight.
Myself I know that I must die.
Even so, I find I sigh.