The Monument
Nothing lasts forever
The man worked with a gentle touch, brushing dust off the stone as he slowly chiseled a life onto it. Pictures emerged, a baby held by his mother, a boy playing in a forest, a man at war. The good and the sorrow of a human experience, plainly shown on the face. A name was carved in the center.
A group came to take the stone to the field where the warrior fell. Settled in its resting place, the stone sat, watching. People came in droves, some crying, some not. All had reverence for the warrior. Years passed and less came. Eventually no one came.
The once pristine carvings weathered, worn but not gone. Strangers with different accents and languages came to the stone. They admired the carvings without understanding.
Centuries passed in the blink of an eye. Houses emerged in the field, people came and went from them taking no notice of the stone whose carvings were just barely visible. The people left, their houses rotted and disappeared. Only the stone remained.
This cycle continued for thousands of years and still, the stone stood, a monument to a long-forgotten man of a long-forgotten civilization. Smaller and smaller the stone became, weathered to a fraction of its once great size.
Eventually, it wore away to nothing, forgotten by time.






