Colin F. Jones
Life is the fire and death the ashes,
Our parts are seeds in roaming wind.
This word love that has no meaning,
Fills a void where nothing is.
We pluck the flower which best suits us
And rivers rise due to the rain.
We obey the one who first recruits us
And blame the world for all our pain.
As we age we trip and stumble,
As we once did when we were young,
But now we do it with a grumble,
Forgetting all the songs we sung
For we are not those brave new soldiers
And we will die while they are young
©Copyright November 30, 2001 by Colin F. Jones