Nothing of nothing remains.
We're nothing.
In the sun and air we put off briefly
The unbreathable darkness of damp earth
Whose weight we'll have to bear---
Postponed corpses that procreate.
Laws passed, statues seen, odes finished---
All have their grave.
If we, heaps of flesh
Made sanguine by an inner sun,
Must set, then why not they?
We're tales telling tales,
Nothing...
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