To Life,
Why does it always seem,
you make man crutch on hopes and dreams?
And make him witness pain and hate?
Eternal Peace? You make him wait.
You let him love, make no mistake,
but soon enough, his heart will break.
He’ll work hard – he’s the New World’s pawn –
for things he can’t take when he’s gone.
His friends will leave before he does,
and he will suffer, just because.
Sometimes he’ll lose, sometimes he’ll gain,
but really, it is all in vain.
But yet, one thing remains unknown;
It seems your fate controls my own,
so: When he takes his final breath,
why do you leave?
Yours Truly,
Death
To Death,
It seems that you have fared,
to ask what man has never dared:
Why do I take away sweet Death,
and burden man by giving breath?
Why do I make man toil so?
Make him be born, and make him grow?
And why then, when he nears the end,
do I pass him to you, my friend?
~I make man suffer while he lives,
so he may earn the gift you give.
For until he knows how to cry,
his soul is hard; he will not Die.
Alas, the reason I incline
to let man on earth for a time:
May he find love that trumps all strife,
and that is all.
Yours Truly,
Life