White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. 
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.

Life is archaeology
Layer by layer
We are formed
Palace to market to dump
Trash becoming treasure
One faith traded for the next
Death unfolding into life
Today dying into tomorrow