Dig through the interlaced roots—nevermore will you find me;
I was no better than dust, yet you cannot replace me….
Take the soft dust in your hand—does it stir: does it sing?
Has it lips and a heart? Does it open its eyes to the sun?
Does it run, does it dream, does it burn with a secret, or tremble
In terror of death? Or ache with tremendous decisions?…
Conrad Aiken, Tetélestai