Dust Thou Art.

I am dirt,

as are we all,

all our forms

traceable to that substance.

We are fed upon it,

all we would feed upon

first fed thereon.

Such forgot,

flesh grows proud,

is prone to insult,

needs respect,

must compete,

speaks with objective scorn

of the dirty and the soiled.

Bury me or burn me,

may not the residue,

given time's fine grind,

be raked into the earth,

blending perfectly,

a rich addition,

ready to be incorporated,

yet again?

However keenly cleansed,

the body is of dirt,

brain included,

and therefore mind,

and therefore me.

My thoughts are mist,

from earth exhaled,

the deluded vapours

of a sod sublime.

To walk across a ploughed field

is to risk stumbling upon one's origins,

falling face forward  into the living clay

from which we are so exquisitely,

so mysteriously moulded.

The soil is our common homeland.

This is obvious,

not to be fought over.