Just a mist that hovers over the forest, And disappears at the first rays of the sun: That’s the life of the ones that die young.
They never lingered long enough to seep, Into the bark, into the leaves, to water the ground. Just a few dew drops, hanging from branch tips.
There’s no asking why because there’s no understanding. The answer won’t make sense anyway. Instead, a “what?” would yield ready fruit.
What is the reason, the ultimate purpose, For the flower that withered before it fully bloomed. Certainly not to be memorialized in a poem.
(Written on Nov 28, 2019 – for the sake of a friend gone too soon, leaving behind a heartbreak too severe for his loved ones. And two years since, there have been more heartbreaks to suffer, and endure. Oh for courage to believe that life endures more persistently than death could hope to.)