End of Lineage

Their will be none to follow after my footsteps tramped in the wheat, no surname left to hear the laughter no eye to see, no heart to beat. Time will never stop its running with sun and moon and touch of heat like old stones lie in their sunning not caring for the strong or weak. By the drought or in the flood storms of winter's wind-full passing flowers of May and October’s mud will matter to only lineages lasting. Neither a hair nor drop of blood not shade of eye or crest of bone. Of myself I leave only love and not my name to carry on.