how tragic is it to grow old,

decay and be on the verge of dying

and have pockets empty

of songs and stories?

how sad is it to live through

the spring but write poetry

about the naked winter

and the sad rains;

to have flowers dance around

you, and the grass lend you a hand

to do a duet with the winds

yet bury your soul under

the attic of your broken shelter?

how cruel is it to let the summer die

and not climb a tree and 

dye your lips with the pink

of the fresh pomegranates?

isn't it sad to grow old and not hold

a single story to say to all,

to not be a folklore, a tale or a song

which shall breathe after you go?

isn't it sad to know that 

this is what we all have been

doing so far?

isn't it sad to know that 

we will all die

without a story, or a song

breathing in our pockets?

isn't it sad, tragic, heartbreaking to know

that we didn't quite live our life?

*   *   *   *   *   *

illustration by Glenn Thomas.