Posted in Poems

Is all futile?

Man is turned back to dust.
From dust, our origins.
To dust we return in death.
Why make plans for the future?

The cry of a baby.
It knows what awaits.
Nothing is free of this world.
Will faith be its strength?

Joy is fleeting.
Sorrow continues.
We work to live.
Heavy, our burdens.

We see sufferings.
We feel such pain.
We see happiness.
We feel such joy.

Which is wise?
Spend your wealth,
or horde it away?
All is futile! Isn’t it?

Only death is certain.
Sealed in a box.
Under mounds of dirt.
A darkness unknown.

Futile to stop death.
As a watch of the night.
Time is of fruitless toil.
So, eat and drink. Dance!

The sum of life passes.
Will you say it is all futile?
Remember the cry of a baby.
Man is turned back to dust.

By C.E. Pereira