Does the river ever stops?
Sure of its destiny, it flows on.
Its death an offering: carrying along the silts
from the past, it gifts
their richness to the future of life.

And, men always live
with the burden of carcasses that died
long ago – breathing the stench all their lives.
And death is a relief; for with them, are burried
the rotting flesh of their past.

Cry. Let the tears flow. Unhindered, and uninhibited.
Then offer these pearls, and your gratitude
to the dried leaves of the past, before
having them buried
in the garden of your life.

And, behold your tommorow
rise
from the soil
thus enriched.

//28th Jun 02

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