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 poems