Incomplete stories of many,
Half-written in life’s journey,
Adventures slipped through fingers,
Memories of them ceased to linger.
Ideas carried to grave untouched,
Desires held tightly and clutched,
All carried away with the wind of death,
With the consummation of last breath.
This cycle hath no beginning or end,
Another river and another bend,
Over and over again,
Eternal wanderers, we all remain.
For our souls, no culmination,
Born again, another incarnation,
Stories in progress with role reversals,
No time is allowed for rehearsals.
Through endless rounds of rebirth,
Eternal soul to embody in earth,
To write tales of love, hate and anger,
Of defeat’s whimper and victory’s clangour.
Caught in this vicious circle of infinity,
All are blood relatives, definitely,
We are each other’s parents and children,
Siblings and cousins, as this cycle runs.