DEATH Poem: THE DUST OF THE DEAD, by Jim Newcombe

In what mould was this soft clay cast?
From what rich dust of former men,
the men whose lives have now since past,
has man been wrought to shape again?
For surely from some lifeless dust
were we thumped into common clay
and in time’s stolid sway we must
from dust back into dust decay.
But when my dust begins to mix
and mingle, when my blood is dry,
I pray that from that richer mix
will rise a better man than I.

Author: poetryfest

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