His Last Work

Death's hand layed on the poet's shoulder, he was weak, trembling, sorrowful, and pitiful. But his pen glided across the paper.

All nature blossoms and starts

Sings a song that strikes us still!

Iron rusts, stones erode, wheat is eaten

Flowers flourish, river flows, rain falls.

Never a time can there be

When nothing lives to exist.

Even the deer must cower within the bush

But, night meets day, always that new chance.

Though my night has come, feeling no sorrow

I shall know I lived…

With those words he’d wrote, the poet laid his head on his pillow.

Peace.