You smell of death.
Everything about you
is an endless goodbye

You have made
The cement of your churches out of tears
And ashes, and the fabric will not stand.

You are human; you will become dust; as many days as you have lived, you are so much nearer to your grave.

Books are not life, only its ashes.

You think of yourself
as a citizen of the universe.
You think you belong
to this world of dust and matter.
Out of this dust
you have created a personal image,
and have forgotten
about the essence of your true origin

I am ashes where once I was fire...

Earth, earth
riding your merry-go-round
toward extinction,
right to the roots
thickening the oceans like gravy,
festering in your caves,
you are becoming a latrine.

Soon you'll be ashes or bones. A mere name at most—and even that is just a sound, an echo. The things we want in life are empty, stale, trivial.

Whether you cut it off
or someone else cuts it off
if you put your neck on the stone pillow
believe it—you will turn to dust.

You are a spirit, then,
you Man, and not a Man
at all.
You are a spirit and you dwell
within the guts of mortal beast.

you must be ready to burn yourself in your own flame;
how could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes?

You are all made of real poop.

How could you rise anew if you have not first become ashes?

Firewood becomes ash, and it does not become firewood again.