Cradled in her care, life begins young and fair,
Somehow over space and time
We seem to know  what's really there,
And when we die we are strewn
Like fallen angels made of dead leaves,
Around the yard of nature to be raked,
No matter what we want to believe,
Through all the years that it will take.

No matter how far we will traverse,
Even with unquestioned religion well rehearsed,
Renewed in morning dew, mile after mile,
All become the fruit of a compost pile.*

But that's not true, is it?
Life began with one quick sentence,
A crack of light-it must be legit,
Moulded clay, a rib from Adam,
In the end we all just turn to dust,
Hell will freeze over if it must,
So you can never ever trust us again,
New-age science is just stupidity then.