Veils of vapor, like the curtains of the heavens drawn,
Descend from the empyrean, to the earth's bosom they're born.
The damp, the viscous air, in a somber dance they fall,
Into the crisp embrace of the cold, where silence enthralls.
Beyond the bounds of confinement, where the pines and cypresses stand,
A cemetery's quietude, 'round which the ancient trees expand.
Monuments of marble white, with the etchings of decay,
Bearers of the stories past, where the departed lay.
Here lie the slumbering souls, in the realm of the forgotten,
Their memory in others' minds, a slow and fading potion.
As visages blur and skin pales, their essence wanes away,
Like pigments of a fresco, from the canvas of the mind they stray.
All that they were, their nature, their deeds, their voice,
Fade into the annals of time, a silent, mournful choice.
As those who remember them, too, to the pyre consign,
Their tales to the winds of oblivion, like sparks that decline.
They perish once more, in the memories they leave behind,
In the silence of the forgotten, their legacy confined.
Tombstones may endure, where the memories may not last,
Inscribed with tales of life, with honors and the past.
Yet all things must yield to time, to decay they must bow,
Even the monuments of stone, to dust they shall go.
For in the end, all that we hold dear, all that we entrust,
Is but a consignment to the earth, to the dust, and to the dust.
The notion of eternity, a jest, a fleeting dream,
As tombstones crumble, inscriptions fade, the past seems but a scheme.
They die anew, upon the stone, where their names once shone,
On the marble's cold embrace they worn,their legacy is undone.
To be human is to know the cycle of joy and woe,
To dance with life's fleeting moments, as the seasons come and go.
Dust to dust, earth to earth, as the sages have decreed,
The cycle of existence, in the river of time, we proceed.
Above the shrouded firmament, a sea of stars so wide,
A river of celestial tears, where the dust of stars has glided.
A stream of life and death, in the cosmic flow they're cast,
In the grand tapestry of time, their essence is embraced.
They are the weavers of the cycle, the spinners of the thread,
Crafting the vast canvas of life, with each life, they've led.
They are the artisans of romance, in the void they sow the seed,
Gathering into constellations, a spectacle indeed.
For every atom of our being, from the stardust we derive,
Each finger, each bone, each cell, from the cosmic dust alive.
In disregard of time's swift flight, and entropy's cold hand,
For we are the very essence, of the universe's grand stand.
Though we may die today, and be forgotten by all,
In the vast cosmos, we return, to the stars, we recall.
Becoming suns that light the darkness, or the dust that roams the sky,
In the eternal cosmic ballet, our souls shall never die.
From the stardust we emerged, to the stardust we shall wend,
In the cosmic dance of creation, our journey has no end.