They say time is up,

yet we keep looking down.

Contemplating on this ground, this curtain that covers the dead.

The reflection of the corpses buried facing up,

they reflect the end of ourselves in the

middle of our start.

The ground segregates us from them who know all about time.

They know it so well, they don’t need no watch.

When I see a small, naughty kid

dancing to the clock,

I just wonder if he knows what his music is

worth.

Is earth a grave of corpses in search of eternal life?

or is eternity here, and maybe we are being fooled by time?

for I have overheard some say that they are ready to die.

maybe death is not the end of life but the life we are too busy to live, too busy to breathe.

Maybe time is the coat that death merely borrows you.

If you don’t believe me, why are all corpses skeletal?

For in this cold world, we need time’s heat to stay.

Free will is not free enough to free to free us from this fee of life.

Because in this costly world everything expendable can be exhausted,

so the cost, the real cost, of will is the choice’s end.

Maybe our will to live may be our will to die,

till death do us apart, like everyone who was once alive.

Is life worth living if no one knows what happens when it ends?

Well, is this poem worth reading if you don’t know how it ends?