Do we comprehend reality?
That, finally, all we are
are faults in time, enough to pause
the relentless entropic urge,
but never to stop it?

All humanity has imagined
that it alone was the point,
all those nameless, greaseless corpses,
a poverty of sand and wind.

Who ever remembers them?

We have our own issues,
our own duty,
to create a universe
to be forgotten in its turn.