Every form must end. A person is like water poured out on dry earth, spreading and sinking away, and no hand gathers that water back into the cup it came from. The passing is honest and cannot be undone, and the same fate meets everyone without exception.
Yet the water is not lost. What looks banished, driven off, cut away, is not finally thrown out. A way is made for it to be drawn home again. The spilling was never the whole story. The ground that seemed to swallow it holds it, and what seemed exiled is welcomed back into the source it fell from.