Go, nor look behind.
The matter is between myself and oblivion.
—I see above me the air that envelops all, and these gigantic trees,
Like half-burned piles in the rivers of air, thrusting up devastated boughs
To the silent call of this wall of conflagration,
Giving back, as they sway together, a muffled bleating.
Here I lie to rot, to lose my face like a veil,
Grinning at the moon through knots of crawling worms.
The Standard Bearer: Do you think that man, being dead, is born again?
The King: I do not believe in the fables of old women;