Colin F. Jones
If we are born to die, my friend, then why be born at all.
It seems to me a pointless trend to rise that we may fall.
We are upon the Earth, you know, but tiny specks of dust
That vanish in the afterglow of all we love and trust.
Yet surely there is purpose here that we but live to die.
Though all our lives we, dying, fear without us knowing why.
If born to die, then life on Earth is simply there to give
A cycle of perpetual birth in order that we live.
So round and round the cycle goes; we live and feed and rot.
This single purpose ever grows ere we survive or not.
So are we really born to die? Is death of life the end?
To this, my friend, I can’t reply but I can sure pretend.
I must believe if I am man, that I possess a soul
That dwelt in me when life began to form my inner whole.
For how can I become no more; how can I see me dead?
There has to be another door through which my soul can tread.
One’s absence, man cannot describe; his death he cannot see.
For death is just a brief divide to let his soul go free.
©Copyright May 6, 2001 by Colin F. Jones