5, 30, Fifty, or 100 years from now
What does it matter when we will die?
The beautiful truth is
flowers will still grow from our bones.
Ashes to ashes
dust to dust
from whence we came
return we must
(I encountered a snail on a riverside trail months ago, near one of my favorite willow trees. Today I found the corpse of a snail, with the same markings on his shell. Goodbye little friend)
*image from V. Mischenko