You see a thing like the old olive tree
At the entrance of the village and take it for granted
Until you suddenly see the tree is dying
Yet, it has about it a none communitive dignity
An acceptance that life`s unplanned cosmic shortness.
Dying slowly, the medical profession are trying
To get more mileage, but in the end the car mechanics
Of the body see the case as hopeless, but are bound by
The Hippocratic Oath and let us live passed our sell by date.
To be dead is to be unborn there is no second coming
Not even for a 300 years old tree.
Yet, the morning wakes us up with a dance on the duvet
And small thoughts take over buying, a pair of shoes
All those little bagatelles are the sum of our existence.