Two   the word we use,  
As if life were a coin,  
Each side opposing:  
One, a dream; the other, silence.  

We call Death the thief of goals,  
The end that never asks,  
But why should it?  
When even Life, its brother,  
Arrives without permission,  
Yet remains sacred.

Sometimes I speak to Death itself,  
Ask it:  
Why don’t you knock?  
Why don’t you warn?  
Why don’t you ask before you take?

But then I pause,
Am I not in control of my own path?  
Or is Death the master still,  
Choosing when to come  
And who to claim?

Death
Why do  you grieve?  
Why do  you  fear fate?

Imagine the soul   yours, mine  
Entwined in the delicate dance  
Of life and its inevitable shadow.  

It must happen.  
Karma, I say.

Every decision, every step
The seeds of future consequence.  
Right or wrong, good or bad
But who defines them?

The sun and earth,  
Even they obey time
Silent servants to fate.