We are but dust motes in the flow of the galaxy,
Wrought into shape by the grasp of intimacy,
And formed into existence by the accumulation of cells.
From the first cry of the newborn to the last gasp of breath,
Ours is but a wisp of time that flutters so fast,
Which naught but makes a dent in the vector of time.
To those of you who seek a higher meaning in this cycle,
A query then – to those who flounder and fail,
Will you open your senses and see what has been missed?
Have you see the green meadows and the sparkling rivers?
Your mother’s fond gaze and father’s proud face,
Your baby’s first cry and the first tender kiss,
Been through the wild young stage, and wise old phase?
All this and more, yet your eyes gaze past that view.
Is there a greater import to being, a way to discover the inner deep self?
We’ll have this time to ponder when,
Our soul has departed from this world only then,
For now, the life is in front of you,
Enjoy and live, and be thankful for the bliss,
Of the paradise which is your home.