Bovine-like, we shall meet our deaths
(Such is the scythe the reaper wields)
No matter that the final breaths
Come in stockyards or placid fields.
A slight rustle, perhaps, we’ll feel
At the loss of our distant kin;
Another gear, another wheel.
Oh well—that’s life—come on, tuck in.

What, then, shall be the epitaph?
No bromide written in some stone,
One would hope, for this life once shone
In a mother’s eyes, father’s laugh
Which still flower in memories
And vexes all our reveries.