The priests change, the people change, no one comes back; the choir comes and sings, then goes away; daylight creeps in, floods the room, ebbs and creeps back out: even the dirt is only last year's palms burnt: this year's dirt will take its place. The smudgepot is maybe a century old, the church itself has stood five generations; the dirt beneath has borne up three churches and before that trees and before that nothing but the sky The labelled dust in the boneyard has been just dust for centuries having whirled briefly at the interface of being dust and being dust.
^^^	<---|--->	<|>