The Emperor's Nude Clothes Humanity will end, For all things must and do. This is not news. We are not masters of the Earth Nor even of ourselves. We are fruit on a branch of the tree of life: Budded, blown, Weathered and grown Ripened, corrupted then thrown. Do not mourn for the Earth, We cannot kill it. Do not mourn for our lot Or the passing of species. For the pages keep on turning in the book of life. Mourn for yourself If you must mourn at all. For you were born dying, As all else is. And only the end that comes Will be yours Alone. Though there was never a you to begin with, Nor yet a you that was really apart. More like A drop of spirit Conjoured from cloud, To be rained through a lifetime. Weathering a body And sounding a soul, Falling fathomless deep In a mystery of ocean, Ringing back to infinity, Completed and whole.