[ WP ] Stars have brilliant deaths , large explosions given a beautiful name . Men are granted nothing so glorious .

Dust becomes mass; becomes light; becomes life. 
 
 Life becomes death; becomes beauty; becomes dust. 
 
 A cycle perpetuated through all time and all space, from first light to everlasting darkness. Until only dust remains, scattered unto the edges of an entropic universe. And when there is nothing left to die and decay, all beauty will be gone. 
 
 Only survived by faint echoes. 
 
 Echoes of the first great cosmic symphony. Each star, a faint note in the movement of movement itself. All things vibrating; resonating like a string plucked by the hand of God. 
 
 But all strings eventually snap. All songs come to an end. Every echo fades. 
 
 Stars, clamoring in crescendo, trading mass for light; life for beauty. Dust returns to dust. 
 
 And as each brief note adds to the chimeric celestial chord, all we can do is rattle. Our embers will never glow as brightly. Our songs will never be as melodic. Our deaths will never be as beautiful. 
 
 Our mass; our light; our lives... 
 
 Our dust is not our own.
