When people die, where do they go?
Do they become the tears that incessantly flow? Or do they become flies, that sit by the window?
Hoping for a chance to go back home
When people die, I often think where they go
Body decays, sure, but the soul must live on?
Does it entangle itself into the clouds or maybe the lightening, if vengeful?
Do they turn into the rain and bless the harvest season?
Or do they just exist with us, in a parallel world, devoid of anything and everything under the smoldering sun
Why are we scared of death when life is the ultimate test
History is witness that existence is a punishment, a burden to bear since the dawn of time