The universal is composed of trifles,
A detail — galaxies of worlds.
The small has grown into the great,
Googols are no bigger than zeros.

Consciousness will outline itself with a frame,
Will sense a name, will say: “I”,
However it pampers its own,
It will plunge into the abyss of oblivion.

It will vanish without a trace,
To recall itself in other dimensions,
And already new, wholly unaccustomed
It will set about reincarnating.