They die, the birds, after their last trip to the south.
Some cannot make it. Too hard the flight.
The wind takes them with it. Where are they going, they already know the sky, so do they know heaven?
They fall, the leaves. Their lifetime so short, the blooming
vanished. They die, the leaves. The tree lets go off them.
The earth they fall upon is what will remain of them.
They don’t want to let go of people, these humans. You know, they will have no choice.
The thought of one’s own death, the healthy, the sick, all are tormented by that the same.
This last path, the young, the old, the rich and the poor, is what they are all concerned about.
They hope for a life after death, pray that this right here wasn’t all they can expect.
For sure, they don’t want to be done with life. Their existence becomes a nightmare, scourging themselves with the only question: “When?”
They complain when it hits their loved ones, they scream and rage. Almost never is there enough time. How could it be enough, as they want to love, be loved, even more? The human suffering, the end of their life, unimaginable and incomprehensible.
While they should not fill their lives with this, how can they do anything other than being scared of the one thing, they can never control?
They just have so much to lose. All while being so aware of exactly that.