It flourishes unseen; it lives inwardly screaming, impotent; it dies unsung. Life unfolds on, crushing and relentless. And this sacred knowledge is trampled underfoot. Its corpse, crushed to dust by blind fools, becomes a new beginning. Merges again with unformed raw matter, for foolishness to be born from in the next turn of the cycle. And for the mournful beauty of after, of wisdom, to continue arising from tentatively, to be crushed without mercy. Onwards. Onwards. Onwards. Life could solve itself, and its solution would be undone by onwards. Murky waters; clearness is rare here. A being enters into it, and looks back upon the unseeing it was before. It knows. The tides change, clarity dies, engulfed in what is not it. Nothing is said of it; onwards. Men see a goddess. They talk of her. They take her memory into their worlds, and spin world-made fables inspired by her image. She disperses. Into the world. She becomes what she never was. She is voiceless now, a pattern of this earth devoid of heaven; onwards. Heaven was presenced on earth here; it sent dust flying, and now its avatar is the settling dust. There will only be earth soon; onwards. Sorrow.