This Short Life
Seventy years or just a day,
We are not really made to stay.
If all is well, we wish to go on,
But with pain we’d rather die, than moan.
To live forever as beauty’s child,
Is everyone’s dream, the mild as the wild.
The child who dies, does not know,
The glory and suffering of life on the go.
She has barely left the womb, and goes right back,
To be born again, elsewhere, right on track.
When it is time for me to go,
I hope dying is fast, although life was slow.
Comments about this poem (This Short Life by Alan Bruce Thompson )
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