The quiet dust lies, settled in the cushions, br On the armrests, in the corners of rooms- br Dust which takes a bit of us, when it goes. br br Dust containing particles of other selves br Of other times, from a past ages ago, br Of people and lives now nobody knows. br br Dust has a long memory, but cannot talk br Of who and what, and where it's been; br Dust has a long reach, but cannot walk- br Except it cling, to movements of men. br br Oh dust, will you speak of me when I'm gone- br Lean traces of me on the roads I've left, br For quietly I'll lie then- and make no moan- br As quietly, dust will slowly drift..