By The End of Hope

Years each of us spends as a pilgrim, as we see the yard of graves as far as our sight goes in distance, we acknowledge the death in various colors through assorted histories of humankind, across diverse cultures. The nature teaches us that death is part of world's cycle, like how plants that grow from soil must someday wither according to the changes of life.

Life of creatures must be lived as long as it has not yet reached its endpoint. No matter how harsh or cruel can sometimes, or rather most of time, life becomes, we must keep going, we must endure it. Some of us might be saved by delusion we apply on ourselves, pretentious jubilance by mortal possession. Some others, when successfully attain the knowledge of awakening, understand that life is factually full of misery.

Pilgrimage

Traces of lives,
remnants of what once stood and breathed,
but now are gone into the deep soil.

As spoken by impossibility
for anyone to find one single span on earth
that never has become the funerals of the deads.

Thus the footsteps landed on lands
are reminders of the histories and foretime
in solemnity as we muse by prayers.

And every pavement passed,
together with the colored zephyr of memoirs,
is a pilgrim in solitude.