Is This What We Die For?

To be rich with millions of

pieces of paper,

is this what we die for?

To see green growing

in vaulted chambers?

To look upon a neighbor and say,

I am richer than you?

And what of the old man,

the one with the sad eyes,

what would he die for?

A place out of the bitter wind,

perhaps?

A bottle of wine, a warm coat?

What does one look upon and say,

I would die for that thing?

A bit of rain failing

on parched, sun-glazed land?

Fifteen minutes of fame

and worshipping masses?

A word that hangs in the air forever?

Or a lonely mountaintop

with the mysteries of the universe

rising with the sun?

And if, by utter chance,

the world were to end in an hour,

what then would we die for?