Echoes of the past

Echoes of the words
I've spoken,
linger here
upon this page,
living, some say,
as if immortal,
though my last breath
is perished and gone.

If too, could live
my memory,
a mere sparkle
in another's thoughts,
then, I too,
like my words,
would lay down content,
never spoken,
never living,
merely an echo
of memory.

But this, I think,
only my words
can achieve
for, though,
I've arranged them,
they are not my own
and are another's echoes
of the past.
Merely, another's
echoes of the past.