Our works in stone in paint in print
are spared
Some of them for a few decades
or a millenium or two
But everything must finally fall in war
or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash
The triumphs and the frauds
the treasures the fakes
A fact of life: we're going to die
'Be of good hearts'
cry the dead artists out of the living past
Our songs will all be silenced
But what of it?
Go on singing