Friday, August 28, 2009
Abe V Rotor
Impossible to the old,
I'm-possible to the bold;
Retire for the night,
Re-tire for the might.
It's often told this story:
That which we can't accept,
Upon death, smells sweet -
And sweeter is its memory.
Heavenly fire the clay took form,
Lives his soul after his ash;
Tempered, he survives the storm;
Out of Eden to live with us.
Life lived far from Damascus Way,
Is like little feet that dare stray
Across hedges, and down the bend
Crying, dimming at its end.
Late we rise at the edge of decay,
To herald birth at life's last bend;
"Death be not proud," the sages say,
"It's how we've lived that tells our end."
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