Out of all the decay
Of last century's losses,
Life persists, shouting
Yes to silence all those no's.
These green shoots
In the rotting wood
Tell us nothing ever
Goes for good —
But gets drawn up
In other forms yet unborn —
The shape if your nose,
The glint in your eye,
The timbre of your voice,
Animating some far-off descendant
Inhabiting a future in which you
Now know you will play a part.
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