It is all a rhythm, br from the shutting br door, to the window br opening, br br the seasons, the sun's br light, the moon, br the oceans, the br growing of things, br br the mind in men br personal, recurring br in them again, br thinking the end br br is not the end, the br time returning, br themselves dead but br someone else coming. br br If in death I am dead, br then in life also br dying, dying... br And the women cry and die. br br The little children br grown only to old men. br The grass dries, br the force goes. br br But is met by another br returning, oh not mine, br not mine, and br in turn dies. br br The rhythm which projects br from itself continuity br bending all to its force br from window to door, br from ceiling to floor, br light at the opening, br dark at the closing.