What for grasps the dead man’s hands?
Fingers sloppily grey and cold against the earth of the grave;

What for seeks the dead man’s mind?
Fold’s crawling wetly like worms against the cracks of his skull;

What for draws the dead man’s soul?
Falling, falling, falling, into itself a narrow black recess in the shape of a man;

Every man is dead,
Every man is grasping,
Grasping;
Grasping, crawling;
Grasping, crawling, falling!

A Word passes.
Speak Woman your fiat!

Behold, there is one yet alive,
One man is grasping,
Grasping;
Grasping, crawling;
Grasping, crawling, falling,

and rising.