Colourful flowers are seen in bloom, hither and thither,
However, at the end of the day, most of them droop and wither,
A person who is fit and healthy at the break of dawn,
May no longer be alive, to see the sun next morn.
The miracle of life leaves no unturned stones,
For, without it, the body is but a bag of bones,
The value of life is known, not by the man who commits suicide,
But the hardest rock, in which inexpressible feelings reside.
Death, riches or fame are no measure for life,
For, no amount of money, no advance in science, or the surgeon’s knife,
Can bring back to life, a body by cold death crumpled,
Or pour a new life into a Frankenstein assembled.
The only measure of each one’s life is our breath,
For, the final destination of all things living is death,
The earth was obscure and a speck in a galaxy of strife,
Until the moment it was blessed with the gift of life.