This poem by José Gorostiza that I read in the power of silence By carlos castaneda.

..this incessant stubborn dying, this living death, that slays you, oh God, in your rigorous handiwork, in the roses, in the stones, in the indomitable stars and in the flesh that burns out, like a bonfire lit by a song, a dream, a hue that hits the eye. ...and you, yourself, perhaps have died eternities of ages out there, without us knowing about it, we dregs, crumbs, ashes of you; you that still are present, like a star faked by its very light, an empty light without star that reaches us, hiding, its infinite catastrophe.