He lived actively, gathered an inheritance —
Nobody even to haul it to the dump.
He mocked, he jeered at the elders,
To take with him into the grave,
Like they did, he could not —
Death’s high threshold got in the way.

Why then does instinct call to hoard?
To one sprinkled with earth the surface is indifferent.
It is the Sun that writes patterns on the darkness,
On feminine principles with the principles of a man.

Life arises,
The partly frozen melts.
It flies up to the clouds again for merging —
The illuminated form is famed for its changes.