Transition

We can't help but fear the inevitable end Of all whose beginning is now, And to those who have met this end Folks do wish they are here somehow. Like trees on the wings of seasons Mindless of the passing clime, We oft watch with wondering reasons As the earth devour mankind. Behind is that day of the old, When dauntless youths of age go wild As they strive to leave prints so bold; With the feet of a grown up child. In the future lies a life unborn, That lives in the arms of history Unaware that the living sojourns; And a lifetime is ever transitory.