THE END TIME

A baby is born; a pear blossom unfolds it's newly formed petals. A child grows so does the foal leap for joy in a green field with its Mother. The woman matures like the Moon moving through her quarters. Bearing her fruits like the seeds of a Maple that grow at it's feet.

Alas when we are called home it's never when we or our loved ones are ready for us to leave. But go we must for our vessels our fragile. Much more delicate than our will to stay and support those who depended on us to be there.

Mourning however is for those left behind. For they feel the void left by the departure of the loved one's soul no longer shining in this plain. The one who is freed surely does not morn, but soars like an eagle through the light of the eternal essence awaiting them.

Anonymous