a collection of images.

________________________
What are the roots that clutch,
What branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?

Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess,
For you know only
A heap of broken images,
Where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter.

Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow
of this red rock,)
And I will show you something
Different from either:
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening
Rising to meet you;

I will show you fear in a handful of dust.

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From The Waste Land
part I, 'The Burial of the Dead' | 1922
by TS Eliot