We have to live till the last drop of life.. that is what we are born for.. many people do not understand this.. they finish halfway.. they forget that they do not have the right to do so and embrace death.
Every time a life falls, the mind does not agree to look at it as a dried-up garment. The tears of all the people turned into questions.
Life is just a call away
You who committed suicide and were spit back into life to deny death,
How come your mind has become a banquet hall for demons?
When did it dawn on you?
If you had died,
O one who was dissolved in the womb of death, the city would have cried.
You are not dead, but you are crying
Wipe your eyes with a handkerchief Do you know the nobility of life?
Do you know the greatness of humanity?
Isn't life the journey of a drop of semen?
It's the universe's summary If it destroys you,
You destroy the universe's copy
Do you have the right to destroy the universe?
When life sent you down to earth what was a handful of flowers now...
A bag of coffin nails...? Oh!
Is harmony with life a conflict with man?
Even if the human being is taken away,
The earth will not be left, sinner
He who sees the earth forsaken,
Has not the earth forsaken thee,
Has the wind forsaken thee alone?
Has the moon cast her rays upon you?
Did the flowers see you and hide behind the leaves?
Life welcomes you to dwell on its peaks
Why do you dig the valley of death with your claws
I want to realize the price of life, get up, come behind me, look,
Even if half of my life is gone, the old man is still hanging on the corner!
Why?
A chicken that does not fly even though it is a bird flies
When it sees a hawk! Why?
Why do hospitals still fight falsely against the reality of death?
The spider is swinging as the web collapses! Why?
For the minute extension of life
Brother!
You decide and understand the life that determines death and death
Until the fire burns and the fire revolves and the earth struggles
Man you are man..
Thank You
About the Creator
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munsona day ago in Fiction
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