This thing called Death is but a return
To the soil from whence we came,
The soft clay of this Earth, our components,
Formed into shapes, then given a name

The dust we see floating on sunbeams
Is the soul in disarray,
But when arranged in the proper order
Molds us into who we are today

How we cherish these bodies of clay,
Though we don't get to choose them,
Defective or whole, in sickness and health,
When Death calls, how we fear to lose them

Proud as the peacock we wear our flesh --
Fine particles of matter!
But Death carries us all to the same fate:
We rot, and the particles scatter

Our value diminishes to naught
When we realize this truth:
"From dust we came, to dust we shall return."
(Though you may find my ramblings uncouth)

And those who shed tears at our graveside
Cry for their own destiny,
For well they know that they too shall become
A speck of dust in eternity