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Prospero’s Dream

“And like the baseless fabric of this vision, the cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself; yea, all which it inherit; shall dissolve, and like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind.”  The Tempest Act 4, scene 1

Where is the thing that matters
among all the doing that occupies our days?
What shape of body, style of dress,
ideas embraced, belief expressed,
act of love or sacrifice,
will last a hundred years?

What part of the you, you know as you,
will endure the passage of even a small time?
who will remember one thing you said, or did
or why you thought you said or did it
when your flesh is gone, your atoms scattered
back into the mist?

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