Beneath the gentle caress of time’s weathering hand,
Stones crumble into whispers, grains of forgotten lands.
Winds, like eternal artists, chisel the ancient face,
Crafting stories of silence in their unyielding embrace.
The mountains stand as sentinels, proud and tall,
Yet wear the marks of ages, in their gradual fall.
Rivers carve their pathways, through the heart of stone,
Singing songs of erosion, in a timeless tone.
Leaves rustle their secrets to the listening breeze,
While the sun paints the sky with hues that never cease.
Each raindrop, a sculptor, shaping earth’s grand design,
As nature’s gentle weathering reveals the divine.
In the quiet of twilight, shadows softly blend,
Telling tales of weathered worlds that time will mend.
For in the cycle of change, beauty’s essence lies,
In the weathering whispers of earth and skies.