In touching disarray the shards were scattered,
And in the sickly shaft of westering sunlight
That pierced a passage through the chinkéd wall
I saw a wisp of pallid dust was swaying.
It rose before me as the final motes
That vestige death, and turned my mood so eerie
That, lest my fellow-flesh, my very fathers
Perchance, be mixed with my unconscious breathing,
Long time I held the air within my breast.
Kan.