One is connected in so many ways
To this fragile thing we call our life.

And yet, how is it that it all closes in,
Once we leave, like we’ve never been.

Like some quick sand swallowing up
The final evidence of what once lived!

Do we live on, in what we leave behind,
In something more than just a memory?

Do we come into this world
With passions all our own?

Do we leave it, laying claim
to a single original thought?

How could it be said that we were born,
If nothing new arose with our birth?

And if we were never born,
Could we ever pretend to die?

Is there a better argument than this
For our own immortality?