An organism crumbles from the core
And we, who dance on the circumference,
Stick paper on the cracks in the pretence
That they will disappear if we ignore
The stench of death. It all took place before,
Man's empires come to pass and no defence
Of the perimeter can check the sense
Of creeping rot within. What lies in store
Is lawful and deserved; we should not mourn,
Or curse the fading light, lest inner eyes
Grow dim and fail to see a seed is borne
In rotting fruit, a seed that never dies.
In Winter's discontent is Spring re-born,
The phoenix needs the ashes to arise.
