At Seventy-two or fifty-three,
The Angel of Death is eyeing me.
I do not fear him for I know,
Like flowers and trees, we all must go.
Back to the earth from which we came,
Your dirt and my dirt will be the same.
Our lives as humans may come to an end,
But another awaits just ‘round the bend.
I may come back as a tomato plant,
Or if I’m lucky, a giant elephant.
Life eternal would be a bore,
Nature offers much, much more.