As the red waters recede to dust
And white sponges grow arid,
What use is it, of these inside?
Inside – this passed on hollow of a frame?
Not to rot away under the dirt,
Or cinder up in a furnace or pyre,
But to enliven a dying
Or breathe in a new life.
Not tomorrow or the day after,
Not next hour or two later,
When our waters run high,
When our sponges are soft,
When the sparks run back and forth,
When our pump is in full thrust.
Donating one’s organs makes you nobly immortal.