We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw, alas
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other kingdom
Remember us, if at all, not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
