Tempus... Pondus... Aeternum... The stone does not fear the drop. It fears the years that never stop. A drop of water on the ancient stone, one small kiss before the cold. It does not crack, it does not break, but the mountain learns to ache. Stone to dust, dust to air, the slow collapse is everywhere. Body bends, the tower leans, and time rewrites what time has seen. No wound is opened. No blow is thrown. Only the falling, and the stone. The drop returns, again, again, a patient blade without a hand. And the stone that swore it would not fall has already fallen after all. Time does not destroy! It only continues! The mountain is not broken— it is worn into the wind! We are not defeated by the blow, but by the endless, endless flow! The weight of time is not a strike— it is the silence after light! The stars that crowned the newborn sky are embers now, and still they die. Not in battle, not in flame— just a fading of the name. Cities crumble, kingdoms rust, empires kneel and turn to dust. Not by the sword, not by the fire— just the patience of the hour. Every memory I hold will blur. Every face I knew will fade. Time is not a god that hates. Time is only late. The drop returns, again, again, a patient blade without a hand. And the stone that swore it would not fall has already fallen after all. Time does not destroy! It only continues! The mountain is not broken— it is worn into the wind! We are not defeated by the blow, but by the endless, endless flow! The weight of time is not a strike— it is the silence after light! Drop... drop... drop... The stone is hollow now. The mountain is a ghost. And still the water falls. And still the water falls. I will not curse the falling water. I will not rage against the stone. For I am both—the patient drop, and the mountain worn to bone. If time must take what time has made, then let it take with gentle hands. For what is worn is not destroyed— it is returned to older lands. The bell will toll, the choir will rise, the stars will close their thousand eyes. And still the water finds the stone— unbroken, and alone. Time does not destroy! It only continues! The mountain is not broken— it is worn into the wind! We are not defeated by the blow, but by the endless, endless flow! The weight of time is not a strike— it is the silence after light! But in the falling, we remain. In the wearing, we are made. Not untouched, not unchanged— but shaped by every dropping day. Tempus... Pondus... Aeternum... Silentium...
