The sun rises,
And it sets.
The flowers bloom,
Then die.
The breath is inhaled,
And exhaled.
Without relization,
The ink dries up,
The pen looses vigor,
And the hand refuses to write.
The years go by,
And time ticks on.
No longer children,
Not even adults.
The thought,
The wish,
The hope,
All die.
The illusion,
Of happiness,
Dies too.
Among forgotten dreams,
Among dead aspirations,
Lies the last bit of happiness,
Left in this world.
Only the eyes of the dead,
See clearly now,
But cannot touch the tangible.
Their gastly fingers yearn to touch,
What life has left behind.
