Within, the aftertaste of flowers and seeds,
Without, the shocks of mechanical fleshy movement.
Together, the beginning of it&#39;s growth for weeds,
Nothing, the grave permitted by nature&#39;s approvement.

The air carries it&#39;s soothing wave through the ravaged canyon,
The abhorrent affairs which the gases deject,
The soul, which is the lover&#39;s fanion,
All they do is to expose, and leave it pecked.

Worrisome for the nothing&#39;s hospice,
the hope of comfort, for there is none to feel,
many wish to make it pompous!
But at the end all would kneel.