We half remember the lyrics. We stumble through the steps, and tire too soon. And then grow still.

We hum tunelessly when once we sang. And fade to a hush when the sound is turned low.

We read until we lose the book, or our sight dims. And recite until voices become hoarse.

Rest is silence.

But the art we make is a gesture towards immortality. Small uncertain steps to be sure, and oils chip and flake. But cleaning the canvas reveals the brilliant hues. Just like, after thousands of years, torch beams picked out the silhouettes of hands and the outlines of the beasts they drew.