Leave behind Some Memento, and then depart from this world
On Impermanence, Legacy, and the Immortality of Words
These lines carry a truth so ancient and so devastatingly simple that every civilization has circled it, named it differently, and still struggled to live by it. They strip life of illusion without robbing it of meaning. They do not deny death; they teach us how to outlive it.
In a few sentences, the Title dismantles wealth, power, and possession—and crowns something quieter, humbler, and infinitely stronger: the human word.
The Fleeting Clay: When Everything Becomes Inventory
Human beings build as if permanence were guaranteed. Houses rise, bank balances swell, titles accumulate, reputations harden into identity. Yet history tells a merciless story: everything material ends up on a list, tagged, priced, and transferred to someone who never knew its former owner.
Pharaohs were buried with gold; today their tombs sell tickets.
Kings ruled empires; their crowns rest behind glass.
Tycoons amassed fortunes; their estates dissolve into litigation and auction notices.
“Sold for the price of clay” is not poetry alone—it is accounting. Clay is common, shapeless, and abundant. It is what remains when value collapses. Even the human body returns to it.
Indian philosophy named this anitya—impermanence. The Bhagavad Gita reminds us that what is born must perish, and what is accumulated must scatter. Krishna warns Arjuna that attachment to the transient binds the soul, while detachment liberates it. The Stoics echoed the same truth in different lands: memento mori—remember, you will die.
This realization is not nihilism. It is freedom. When we see clay for what it is, we stop mistaking accumulation for achievement.
Only Your Dear Words Will Remain
Against this collapse of matter stands something astonishingly durable: words.
Stone erodes.
Gold corrodes.
But meaning migrates.
We remember Socrates not for his home, but for his questions.
Kabir not for his possessions, but for his verses.
Gandhi not for his clothes, but for his silence and his speech.
Words are not objects; they are carriers of consciousness. They travel across centuries by inhabiting new minds. A sentence spoken once can awaken millions long after its speaker has turned to dust.
The Rigveda survived thousands of years without paper, preserved only by memory and voice. Shakespeare’s words have crossed four centuries and countless tongues. A single phrase—“Stay hungry, stay foolish”—outlives the empire of the man who said it.
Tyrants fear words because words outlast force. Empires fall, but ideas reappear in new forms, new mouths, new struggles.
Give Your Songs to Another’s Lips
A song kept dies with its singer.
A song shared becomes civilization.
This line is not about authorship; it is about transmission. To give your song to another’s lips is to relinquish control so that meaning may survive. It is an act of humility and trust.
Parents do this with values.
Teachers do this with knowledge.
Poets do this with language.
Truth-seekers do this with courage.
Guru Nanak’s hymns were never meant to belong to him; they were meant to be sung. Ghalib’s ghazals survive because they were allowed to change voices. Culture exists because someone let go.
In a world obsessed with credit, ownership, and recognition, this is radical generosity. It says: let the truth live, even if my name fades.
Leave a Memento, Not a Monument
A monument demands attention.
A memento earns remembrance.
The Title does not urge us to build statues or chase immortality through scale. It asks for something smaller—and far more powerful: a trace of humanity.
A line someone remembers when they are afraid.
A principle upheld when silence was safer.
A fair judgment that restores faith.
A kindness that becomes someone else’s turning point.
Ray Bradbury once wrote that everyone must leave something behind—a book, a tree, a wall, a pair of shoes—something touched by the hand so the soul has somewhere to go when the body is gone.
Mementos do not shout. They endure.
Then Depart: The Grace of a Complete Life
“And then depart from this world.”
There is no panic here. No clinging. No bargaining.
To depart well is to leave without unfinished business—not because life was perfect, but because what mattered was already given away. The songs were sung. The words were spoken. The memento was left.
Eastern traditions call this moksha. The Stoics called it tranquility. Mystics called it surrender. All meant the same thing: the peace of not confusing existence with possession.
A Philosophy for a Noisy Age
We live in an era obsessed with visibility—followers, metrics, archives, digital footprints. Yet even data decays. Platforms vanish. Accounts close.
The Title asks uncomfortable questions:
What will remain when the assets are liquidated?
What will speak when the voice is gone?
What will still matter when everything has a price?
Not status.
Not arguments.
Not possessions.
Only words.
Only impact.
Only what was freely given.
Choose What Outlives You
One day, everything tangible will be reduced to inventory. But what you say, what you stand for, what you pass on—those things escape the market. They belong to time itself.
So speak carefully.
Write honestly.
Teach generously.
Love courageously.
Give your songs to other lips. Leave behind a human trace. And when the moment comes, depart without regret—because something of you will still be speaking in the world.
