This next poem, I--
as much as I know that the archeology is also something,
which in this state is very--
this University is very high up in.
And I-- sometimes am very angry that so much money
is being used for archeological digging,
since it should be to my opinion sometimes,
used to build better school houses
and housing projects and things like that.
But because-- anyhow, we don't need any proof
that all these kings and prophets have been there
and that they have been using of course, all vessels and things
because they were living there.
So actually it's only people who don't believe in anything
have to dig other people--
[LAUGHS]
So actually, as much as I like to see and do this,
but I have sometimes really--
I am very angry at see things.
At an archeological site, I saw fragments of precious vessels,
well cleaned and groomed, and oiled, and spoiled.
But beside it, I saw a heap of discarded dust,
which wasn't even good for thorns and thistles to go on.
I asked, "What is this great dust, which
has been pushed around, and sifted, and tortured,
and then thrown away?"
I answered in my heart, "This dust
is people like us, who during their lifetime,
lived separated from copper and gold, and marble
stones, and all other precious things as I remain so in death.
We are in this heap of dust, our bodies, our souls,
all the words in our mouth, all hopes."
[APPLAUSE]