For long, I’ve observed elderly people gradually becoming keener to share the stories of their lives, happier in seeing lights of appreciation, respect and pride in the eyes of those who are still to run a lot before they reach the same last lap of life.
For long now, I’ve wondered if my being, my origin will cease to exist — not with me — but with those who gave birth to me, because the only other person — my brother — who knew and understood the surroundings I was brought up in is no longer with us. The idea makes me feel lonely.
You might not understand the feelings behind any of these two etherees — one from the perspective of a person needing to leave a mark, and the other from a person such as myself: a person desiring to show that there is a mark — but do take out time to read. I’d like that.
And plant seeds
In them now, I must.
Time-Chariot flies dust here
Where I toil to dust off time.
My baubles and shine fade, oh see!
Hurry I must, and bugle my mainspring well.
For ere I journey beyond, I must live.
But my life is like a rootless willow.
None to know its root or see its water.
Bugle I must my sunspring loud over,
For none will soon know I came
After I journeyed a road.
Alone I travel
Of Time, slow.