Ephemera
Mother nature spares neither the rod nor a soul.
Dust for a little more than dust ; ashes for a little more than ashes.
Much she gives but a little more , she takes.
Takes as little as dying to be forgotten,
A memory, as soon as the keeper, dies,
For in the morrow, we die too, who remember you today.
Tarry awhile, in no time, your hand will be in mine,
As nature will spare me not. |