All things fade

A temple stands deserted in a brush of jungle thrush, without whisper nor hush, stilling idly, waiting for a time, that will no longer come, no longer in its prime, its creators, have long ago succumbed, this temple numb, as ages pass, it's stones lay bare, holding on to memories of them, vines grow, and wither upon, these chisled steps, sadly stained in blood, the paint fades away, bleached out by the sun, notice how the hands that formed this temple worked, take in, the chip made, when the chisel jerked, the intricate paintings of events they depict, a vast battle scene of facts that conflict, lost to rain and wind, the pillars fallen, its entrance pinned. it matters not of how it looked, and soon the earth on which it stands, will soon shift, causing it to fall to the earth's demands, killing off the memories of men, for it matters not of what we make, for in time all things fade.