In life nothing ends properly.
But then, nothing really ends.
Doors close only for others to open;
sand blows away but only to another place;
a different day is found not far away from today.
Leaves fall and morph into next year’s growth.
Rain spills and vanishes into hard earth
feeding new roots, nourishing life.
Moths become dust but the stars live on
after their light reaches earth
And does sound still exist at the end
of Puccini’s opera, the lark’s ascending call,
the high hum of the singing bowl?