What do we bring when we come here?
Except the pounding heart that cleanses the blood
and the soul that nourishes the thoughts that flood
and the flesh that grows with the years passing
and the spark of life that exists until there is meaning.
What do we take when we go there?
Except the warmth of our final sleep,
And the few tears shed on us as they weep,
And the prayers and chants said in our name,
Tell me, do we take money, wealth or fame?
In truth what do we feel and do when we are alive?
Suspect intentions of people we meet,
Not wanting to return a kind word or greet
Bitter quarrels which are finally pointless,
making oursleves appear cold and heartless.
And I wonder what we feel and do when we die?
Feel sorry for everything said and done?
Or earn some punishment from The One?
Or muse if our whole life was wrong or right?
Or sleep our eternal slumber nice and tight?
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