The Passing Away

Sitting on a park bench posed in a concave structure,
A frail, fragile life glances at the faces passing by.
Reminiscing the past, sipping on joyful thoughts,
The wrinkled, shrunken body releases its little life left.
The battered, beaten body of a past life lived,
Lifts its wary head and praises the sky above.
An outstretched arm can be mistaken as a branch,
A bird of no origin grasps the branch and sings a song of death.

Robert Snow, January 2001

 
 
 
 

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