A Mournful Tune
Spring, do you not see your cross,
in autumns leaves, winters frost?
In youth we play with life,
forgetful that it is rife
with misery. The tragedy
is seeing it take hold.
Body young, spirit old.
Skin wearing off bones.
Hands wrinkled, hair grey,
betrayed by signs of decay.
Family, friends, taken away
by that vixen – time.
Her tricks chaining our minds.
Where is the comfort in this,
the seduction of her kiss?
Being has no boundaries;
but in each story
there is beginning and end,
Which chapter do You
find yourself in?
Transformation:
becoming attuned
to the mournful tune
the reed plays upon
separation from
the mother womb.
Copyright © Ailill Ailill | Year Posted 2011
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