question of the dead...
The early break of a dawning morn
wake the earth like a cry from a newborn.
The cold days of winter break into spring
like the first day after the very beginning.
The nights are dark but very alive
when all the ghostly-pale spirits thrive.
The graves of the dead are whispering...
to all the living, dying and whimpering.
The souls of the ancestors of eras long ago,
the ones we remember, the ones that we know,
lie searching desperately deep in their immortal strife
to try and remember:
What is the meaning of life?