We all leave; but everything remains.
We do not return again to our port.
Those who have died have gone for ever.
The flower that falls decomposes into mud.
Eventually, in another form, the essence of the flower
finds its garden in that mud.
When we die, we shall go through the air,
with uncertain course, in the arms of the great Everything.
We shall return, but without ourselves.
The immortal substance changes form
and some go so that others may come.
The cosmic avenue is circular,
yet without moving outside its pattern
our lives fuse with Life.