They are the children, and we their old, clutching mortal dreams like whirlwinds.
The rich ruddy mortar of body and soul paves the good sturdy road with its twists and bends.
Wheels carve lonesome tracks in the mud on our way to empty the urn.
Whistling past the graveyard, the next generation takes its turn.
At times the weight is too much to bear, when stones are all gathered together.
Yet each one alone, though still made of stone, can be shouldered in all kinds of weather.