Why do people die young?
Perhaps, they have sinned In the Past,
Malefactors in their previous existence.
Or Perhaps, they will commit atrocities
In the distant unforeseeable future,
Victimising the community,
Becoming a Negative externality.
Perhaps, this is our reality.
It's the gardener's job after all;
You cut the weeds down
Before they have the chance to sprout
With an old worn-down scythe
So that the flowers may bloom.
But Who are we to tell the infinite permutations of Fate?
The never-ending river that flows eternally
Into the abyss of the greater unknown.
We are simply swept away,
Reduced to leaves upon its currents.
It is simply the absurdity of our reality,
Standing always at the edge of the drop.
It would probably have made no difference,
I heard a groan from up high-
Aged and hoarse, echoing from the slippery slopes;
Why do people die old?