Is life but only the blade of grass that passes so quickly?
Or is there an invaluable worth from the day of birth?
Pages turn with age and the old sage reads every line,
And has what is written been smitten with lies or love,
Or more likely both upon torn pages since he was born;
And doubtless there have been tears through the years,
And smiles and laughter along the miles of pilgrimage,
But perhaps he sees in his time an image of villeinage;
Ah! But is life more than borrowed time in rented space?
Has his place been marked only by the chime of clock?
And when cock crows on that final morning,
Shall it be a warm welcome or dire warning?
Will an eternal sun rise as an heavenly prize,
Or will that bright light shine as an unwelcome surprise?
Is life but only the blade of grass that passes so quickly?
Or is there an invaluable worth from the day of birth?
To be lived fully and freely rather than in chains of pain?
What does the author write on pages for the sage to read?
Indeed, what is his life worth from the first day of birth?
Note: Originally published in November 2016, now republished for the consideration and enjoyment of new reader-followers. Blessings to one and all!
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