Sonnet 461

I rose from dust and to that dust return,
A child of the universe — no more;
Yet of that grit compounded in what urn —
And of what essence was it formed before?
Should I now care from whence these atoms sprang
Or in whose heart they erst did beat and flow?
That they once spawned a thought in tyrant’s brains
Or spent an eon locked in ice and snow?
Were that they came from bits of fallen stars,
For there in truth some Heaven I might claim,
That purposed plan not arcane force afar
Had hand in molding clay that bears my name.
From dust, from ash, from earth, it matters not;
Wherefrom, whereto, whereof… or what my lot.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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