Random Leaf #308 precisely cut

And all stood still—

as our long-forgotten grave,

overridden by dirt,

overgrowth,

and turmoil—

once more,

rose.

We had,

for many days before,

already dug

our final rest—

yet the glamour of life,

and all its clamor—

of purpose;

of fame;

of superiority;

and hence—

of reason—

made us

unremember—

our last pages.

We may be

significant

for a few generations after—

but to the world:

its youth,

its prime,

its evening—

we are

but specks,

ever-minute details,

ever so trivial.