Chapter 12 word written by fire

Carve the following words for my epitaph: Those who sleep forever here are famous in the water. — Keats Could it be that the long night takes us away like this?Do we just disappear under the feet of the years?Shall the ages sweep us away, leaving us only a name on its pages, written not with ink but with water. Shall this light be extinguished, this love vanish, these ideals and desires become nothingness?Shall death lay low all that we have built, and the wind blow away all that we have said, and the shadows drown and obscure all that we have done? Is this life?Is life the past--it has vanished without a trace, and the present--it follows the past and the future--meaningless unless it becomes the present and the past?Shall the joys of our hearts and the sorrows of our souls all slip away before we know their end?

Is man just like the foam of the sea, which can only float on the surface of the water for a moment, and then the sea breeze blows by, shattering it, making it seem like it never existed? No!I dare say that the true meaning of human life is life which began not in the womb nor ended in the tomb.These years are but a moment in an endless life.This earthly life is but a dream, and what we call terrible death is the awakening.That is a dream, but what we see and do in the dream will last forever with the Lord. For the ether will hold every smile, every sigh--everything that comes from our hearts; it will hold every kiss, a kiss of love.Angels will record every tear we shed—in grief; and send every song of joy that we sang from our hearts to souls wandering in the boundless space.

There, in the world to come, we shall see the turmoil of our emotions and the stirring of our hearts; there we shall know the truth of our God whom we now despise from despair. We call it a mistake today, a weakness, and tomorrow we will discover that it was an essential link in the chain of life. Our toil is not rewarded now, but it will live with us forever, and our glory will be told. The calamity we endure today will be our laurels of honor tomorrow. Besides, Keats - the songful nightingale - would have said, if he had known the love of beauty which his poetry has ever instilled in men:

"Carve me this epitaph: Here lies the One whose fame is written in the sky with fire."