What do we fear more than death itself?
That our memories will be put on shelf,
forgotten quickly---generations three,
I know it sometimes even worries me.
Some will have a granite monolith,
or marble headstone carved with
a few nice lines, a couple of dates,
is that all our sweet memory rates?
Books, they rot, a person’s papers too,
even the famous are not held true,
only those close will ever recall,
what was private, or personal.
But alas, do not fear your fates
strings of souls the future waits,
aligned in clusters, or pearly strands,
washed upon celestial sands,
children of children who had not met
will gather together and never forget.