The dead are the ones still walking about, eating, marrying, arguing, all of it mechanical while nobody is at home inside. A life run by habit and memory is a burial that has never been recognized as one.
Awakening comes with singing, or it is not awakening. A man can open his eyes and turn bitter over the wasted years, and that bitterness is sleep in another posture. Dew falls on whoever consents to be new this morning, and the moment thinking goes quiet, what was lying in the dust rises without anyone having to lift it.