Tuesday, April 19, 2016

Rik George writes

Remembrance Eighteen 

Begin the search for answers now. 
My time grows short to find out why
Death took her and passed me by. 
As if it comforts me to know

The answer. Death awaits us all, 
And why Death comes and when’s obscure.
We catch the disease that has no cure; 
It engineers our final fall.

Death, be not proud; the crop you reap 
Is ripe to harvest. If the grain
Is still green you cut it down 
Untimely. Mortal lives must stop

Because you pass along the way, 
Sickle flashing left and right
Through days of sun and moonless night 
We folk born of earth and clay

Bow before your final decree 
Unwilling to come away with you.
Tell me what wise things I should do 
To know why you took her, not me.

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