The End...

End is a playing doll, made of bones;
Later it becomes usual tomb stones.
It’s a hymn that all must learn
While the corpse is taken to burn
Our home is not on earth to rest
We are just only like normal the dust.
Lament after shadow dispels dark,
Take up within ours we fail to mark
in a little while our holidays decay;
Bearing anguish our lives go away;
Feeling thirst in drought, our souls;
The story repeats; the same unrolls,
In love with the critical last breath,
The cycle goes on around the corners
Of  Birth,  life,  disease, as winners
BY
WILLIAMSJI MAVELI