From nowhere we come; into nowhere we go. What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is as the little shadow that runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset.
Crowfoot, Blackfoot Tribe, last words
I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it’s a most precious graveyard.
Dostoyevski, The Brothers Karamazov. V, 3.
Tell ye your children of it, and let your children tell their children, and their children another generation.
Joel 1: 3.