It is true that we are made of dust. And the world is also made of dust. But the dust has motes rising.

Why hast thou made me born in this country, The inhabitant of which is satisfied with being a slave?

Thou art not for the earth, nor for the Heaven the world is for thee, thou art not for the world.

Since love first made the breast an instrument Of fierce lamenting, by its flame my heart Was molten to a mirror, like a rose I pluck my breast apart, that I may hang This mirror in your sight.

Be not entangled in this world of days and nights; Thou hast another time and space as well.

I am a hidden meaning made to defy. The grasp of words, and walk away With free will and destiny. As living, revolutionary clay.