Color, Caste, Denomination—
These are Time’s affair,
Death’s division classifying
Does not know they are.
As in sleep—all here forgotten,
Tenets put behind,
Death’s large democratic fingers
Rub away the brand.
If Circassian—He is careless—
If He put away
Chrysalis of Blonde or Umber,
Equal butterfly—
They emerge from His obscuring,
What Death knows so well,
Our minuter intuitions
Deem incredible.
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