Only Time Will Tell

We’ve seen this before. The cruelty dressed as strength. The borders redrawn in blood because someone needed to feel big. Families ripped apart so a flag could wave somewhere new. Allies threatened. Neighbors invaded. The quiet made loud, the vulnerable made examples.

We know how this ends. We’ve always known.

But knowing doesn’t make it easier to watch. Doesn’t dull the edge of seeing the same brutality sold as necessity, the same destruction called greatness by people too small to build anything. They don’t erect monuments—they make rubble and call it legacy.

“Only Time Will Tell” isn’t a shrug. It’s a sentence. A slow verdict already being written. You’ll be remembered—just not the way you wanted. Filed next to Nero, next to Caligula, next to Hitler, next to every name we teach children to recognize as a warning. And none of that is enough—but it’s what outlasts you.

So we dance. Not because it’s fine. Because stillness feels like surrender. Because the beat is older than borders, and rhythm doesn’t care who’s winning. Because moving is the only honest thing left when everything permanent is already crumbling.

The sun sets on all of it eventually. That’s not peace. That’s just physics.

Only Time Will Tell. And it will.