I found a grave atop a mountain
Dug beneath a cairn of stone
And on a slate I saw was written
‘This is not my real home’.
‘Do not cling to flesh and tissue
Do not grieve for bones and blood
Do not pine for brain and sinew
The worms will turn them all to mud’.
‘But sing of that enlivening spirit
The light intelligent inside
Creating springs of living quanta
Upon an island in life’s tide’.
‘Until was formed a conscious person
Who fearfully learnt to be humane
Who faltering, danced in three dimensions
And slowly learnt his real name –
Which is the one you might remember
If you have loved what must survive
This chrysalis beneath this cairn-pile –
This butterfly is more alive’.