Poetry & Prose

On Immortality

A lone cross on the side of a hill

Stands as a testament to man’s attempt

To conquer the pains and sorrows of his earthly existence

With the sweet fruit of immortality

How does man not see

That dry beds of rock now stand

Where mighty rivers once reigned

That green emerges once again

From the damp, fertile ground

As orange blossoms paint the landscape

With the dawn of spring

How does man not see

That his immortality

Lies not in the frozen thought of other men

But rather in the way

The way

That  dots  the  trees  with  flushes  of  yellow  in  the  spring

Yet leaves those branches cold and barren in the fall

The way

That springs fresh crops from the fields

While old trees return once again to their roots

The way

Which grants him life in the present

As it has done for countless generations before

Who bathed in the same rivers

Who plowed the same fields

And who pondered the same night sky

How can man not see

That he is neither separate from the ground that supports his feet

Nor from the air that sustains him

How does man not see?

As his immortal cross fades into the countryside

While orange blossoms bloom once again

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