" Cruel misapprehension, you choose the shape
and cast of this wey clay in your hands, as the wheel
ever spins
Tempered in granite, this fired shell hardens
into the scarred shield of your deeds, and the dark
decisions within
Settle hidden in suspension, unseen in banded strata
awaiting death's weary arrival, the journey's repast
to close you out
We blind grievers rise you high, honouring all
you never were and what rots sealed inside follows you
to the grave
I stand now among the mourners, displeased
by my suspicions as the vessel's dust drifts—
oh how I despise funerals.
The Secrets of Clay
Panith Fanal "
― Steven Erikson , The Bonehunters (Malazan Book of the Fallen, #6)