Each cock that crows in the morn mourns the death of dusk,
The sunrise reminds sages of the reality of human mortality
Thirsty, mother-earth drinks the teardrops from the skies
Ever hungry, the garden feast on the feeble leaves from tress
Each new moment dances with bright light and radiant rays
Only to be nailed on a nocturnal cross when dark clouds comes
Every being with blood and breath entered a pact with vanity
Human existence is a sacred script scribed with invisible ink
The sunshine of yesterday cannot rid today of its obscurity
Uncertainty sweetly sleeps in the womb of the time to come,
Time and chance melt into memories that roam in human mind
Years, months and days distils into sweet and sorry moments
A moment is what life offers us on a platter of preference
A time to live and a time to leave this world of wealth a want,
Seasons stops by to sigh, weather whispers words of wisdom,
We are who we are; the earth exists in space and strata,
The sinking sand on which we stand is willing and waiting
it will take nothing from us but that which we can’t afford:
Nothing but the dignified dust that we are, it craves to feast on.
I know two mad measurements that do reflect ceteris paribus:
Twenty-four-hours-a-day and six-feet under mother earth,
Yea, there are two dates not hidden from the lustful gaze of fate:
When the womb opens the narrow gate to human existence
And the tomb opens wild the gate to extinction… afterlife.
There is a word on the marble we will not live to write or read
Yet it will be a concise copy on all what we wrote on life,
Time and chance knocks again and again on the door of destiny
So, cloister your memoir with courtesy while you yet live.
Only few men desire a dream of darkness, dust and ashes
But it is a reality all men will run into at a point in time;
There is a time to be born and a time to bid life farewell
Twain moments that sandwich the opportunity to live for humanity
Or live in mediocrity, two sides to a coin, only one to spend.
© September, 2012.