As the beautiful leaves
upon high bristled trees
must fall as fall turn winter
we must, as time comes
fall over and die
but we shan't do it alone-
yes... together
for we must die
and while many years shall go by
until we must think of such things
we need not mourn this fate
this ominous end, this opening gate
for just being allowed to die
makes us lucky
for the number of people unborn
the acceptance of existence- torn
shadows any number we could see
more than the grains of sand
in the sahara, and
more than the fishes in the sea
and of those unborn ghosts
are greater poets, better hosts
better scientists, never to put on lab coats
when thinking of the billions
that could be here replacing the millions
making our existences seem small and meek
against these stupefying odds
you and I, no scourge of the gods
in all our ordinariness
well we...
we are the lucky ones.