The flesh is gone, and so are you,
But so much that was not flesh spread and flew—
Thought, for instance.  You might still live, is that not true?

You don’t reply, nor has any that’s dead—
Nothing seen, that was here, and now has fled,
Nothing manifested. Only a body that sleeps, then crumbles, becoming its bed.

Now you become earth and rivers and air,
The tiniest you, invisible, spread everywhere,
No longer a person, who can speak, or love, or care.

But what if you still are?  Since the invisible
Hides behind what we cannot comprehend, until
We see what was dead, with life, suddenly overfill,

Whatever caused being before there was being,
Invisible to all dreaming and seeing,
Might be cruel, incomprehensible, but freeing

For all that rages in this material stuff
Is more, much more, than enough,
For whatever God-like sighing sighs when the seas are rough,

And whatever calmness that lives
In eternity—what takes, hopefully, also gives,
To balance death’s cruelty with returning loves.

Haven’t I almost convinced my mind
That silence and doubt are kind?
Oh world!  Will you…unwind?

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