Two the word we use, As if life were a coin, Each side opposing: One, a dream; the other, silence.
We call Death the thief of goals, The end that never asks, But why should it? When even Life, its brother, Arrives without permission, Yet remains sacred.
Sometimes I speak to Death itself, Ask it: Why don’t you knock? Why don’t you warn? Why don’t you ask before you take?
But then I pause, Am I not in control of my own path? Or is Death the master still, Choosing when to come And who to claim?
Death Why do you grieve? Why do you fear fate?
Imagine the soul yours, mine Entwined in the delicate dance Of life and its inevitable shadow.
It must happen. Karma, I say.
Every decision, every step The seeds of future consequence. Right or wrong, good or bad But who defines them?
The sun and earth, Even they obey time Silent servants to fate.
The truth of life we live without escaping from death itself.