Stood proud and tall, a story to tell.
But time, a sculptor with a hand of rust,
Etched lines of age, a silent must.
The sun, a painter with a fiery brush,
Left streaks of gold, a burning blush.
The wind, a whisper, soft and low,
Carved out a space, where lichens grow.
And rain, a gentle, ceaseless tear,
Wore down the edges, year by year.
Each mark, a testament to life's embrace,
Each flaw, a beauty, time and space.
But now, a hand, with purpose bold,
Scratched words of hate, a story told.
A name defaced, a heart defiled,
The stone, once pure, now cruel and wild.
No longer silent, but a voice that cries,
A testament to hate, that never dies.
The stone, defaced, reflects the pain,
A wounded soul, that will not wane.