The gift of love midst daily life,

no matter where that path may lead,

is held within from birth’s first cry

oft wasted as the minutes fly

until we hear the reaper's cry

and souls like doves are freed.

Each lifetime lived from birth to death

though born of blood or passer-by

are nought but leaves on autumn floors,

existence but a moment’s pause

amidst a soul's celestial cause

ere to our gods we fly.

Yet as the precious minutes pass

we spurn the love and garner war

to battle for a common word

to label God, a thought absurd

to shout ‘my choice should be preferred,

in lieu of cosmic awe.

For are we not from stardust born

and did we not that moment share?

No matter what your saviour’s name

or hue of skin, or whence you came

or choice of path, or hale or lame

there are no seconds spare

for lashing out at other hearts

whose gods are just as real as mine,

though strangely called with different names,

their dreams are coloured just the same,

we share the stardust whence we came

yet waste this gift called time.