Death - Poem by Alfred Barna
Death is the anchor, by which our sins are tied
It is the executor of our foolish pride
It is only by realization of our mortal senses
We stop bickering with walls, fighting with fences
This failing flesh is but on loan with no guarantee
That our moment is over, for a moment are we
We believe we can reach to the glory of everlasting above
If only we renounce our guilt and hate, and profess only love
But who is willing to shed comfortable armor
To stand naked before the eyes of the world to see?
Who is willing to parade as emperor?
Trampled on like the peasantry, no loftiness for me
For if I should rise to great heights, the sooner should fall
Take away the magnifying glass, we are but so small
For the greatest gift we can give to ourselves, is to keep perspective
Everything has worth, there is nothing in existence that is rejected
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