We all hang in separate branches,
Yet share the same old tree,
Differentiated products in equal-sized batches
Of the assembly line that led me to thee.
A fresh crisp grasp of reality,
Consummates the experience into a wonderful memory,
The omnipresence of a Mother’s love
Ignored by the desire of illusory celebrity.
The magic of the World turns life into prose,
A book we once hastily opened,
But must sometime reluctantly close.
The symphony of voices,
The mosaic of faces,
Is the museum of life
A collection of worthwhile chases?
A verse in Life is empty,
Without a hand to hold.
The paper on which life’s poetry is written,
Once invaluable, is now regrettably being sold.