To what end is our existence?
A void placing us as an interlude marker in the great curtain of night,
A sand-grain on the beach
or a water droplet in a vast ocean on a stormy day?
How does that same void take me to you, fearful of oneself,
Like a child taking fledgling steps toward its first freedom,
Or a Bluebell in spring,
Gone for a season?
And what of the wonderment of circumstance?
Certainly not chosen, yet bequeathed,
Bourne of one's essence,
discharged against ones will?
And finally, we find our great garden of solace, our peace.
Will we be remembered?
Or are we gone for a season?
Just like the Bluebell?
And finally, we find our great garden of solace, our peace. ...you will find it in the end, for sure. A well written poem...thank you for sharing...Perfect 10. Cheryl
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A poignant rendition set aside for sober reflection. An insightful creation written with clarity of thought and mind.