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.