I Was Scared

Where Do the Seasons Go?


Where do the seasons go when we die,
too young, in our sorrows?

Death does not have wings, no schedule,
does not open or close any doors,

yet death has its way.
Where does a part of us go?

Not to the sky, says the clouds.
I have seen too much of death,

quiet or violent, none is elegant,
as it comes and takes all away.

Death comes for the rich, the poor,
the poet, the non-believer, the insane.

Where do the seasons go
while we moan and curse death?