The mountains stand, proud and tall,
Yet, timeâs gentle hand does call,
With every breeze and every rain,
They yield, but not in vain.
The rivers carve their winding path,
Through valleys deep, and fields of grass,
Each drop a story, each wave a song,
Telling tales of ages long.
The cliffs erode, grain by grain,
Forming landscapes anew again,
Weathering whispers through the years,
Of change, of loss, of silent tears.
And as the world continues to turn,
Through cycles of calm and storm, we learn,
That nothing stays, yet all remains,
In the dance of weatheringâs gentle chains.