Reflection

old-clock1

The face of the clock stands untouched,

It’s hands dutifully makes one round,

Over and over again,

Time marches on,

We rise, we sleep, we aged.

Over and over again.

One day, the face of the clock lies faced down

Its hands no longer moving, dead beyond repair

One day, we don’t rise anymore

Our body, dead and cold.

What then happen to our soul, our memories, our things we cling on to?

Must we be this ignorant to realize nothing stays forever?

 

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