The Keepers of the Old

The hands that built the towers tall,  

Now guard the walls, refuse the call,  

Of winds that whisper, bold and new,  

Afraid of change, afraid of truth.  

  

They laid the stones, they shaped the land,  

And now they fear to lift their hands,  

For what they built, they cannot see,  

Is crumbling in eternity.  

  

The roads they paved once gleamed with gold,  

Now cracked and weathered, growing cold.  

Yet still they stand, in rigid pride,  

Blocking the waves, holding the tide.  

  

But time will shift, and bricks will fall,  

And in their place, new voices call.  

For what was built must yield its place,  

To let the future find its space.  

  

The keepers of the past may cling,  

But still, the winds of change will sing,  

And through the cracks, the seeds will grow,  

Despite the ones who won’t let go.