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.