What is there in life?
What’s in it that forces us to fight?
Is it just one sigh?
To wake up each morn and finally die?
Kids, when born, do cry;
Until they grow sickly and old, they cry.
Our lives, yours and mine;
Blossom in our youths and later on, dries.
Too much has been said;
Too many has been written about its end;
Life has such a trend;
That keeps its wheels turning around the bend.
A challenge unfolds;
To seek happiness until one grows old;
Though the road is broad;
The multitude seeks to get the best load.
For fame and glory;
Material riches and all its folly;
It may be gory;
Attaining it, leaves no one so sorry.
To love and to hold;
To cherish and never ever grow cold;
Life is really bold;
So until one reaches its perfect mold.
What is there in life?
A blank question that no one can strike;
A person’s true plight;
Is how he sees and handles his own life.
n.b. a reconstructed poem, circa 1988
copyright2009.pax.angelicus
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