Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.

Monday, July 27, 2015

Ma. Concepcion

We are born to live, grow, multiply, laugh, cry and later on die. How long  a life is--it does not matter. How life is spend matters regardless how big or small the accomplishments are. What accomplishments done by oldy will mark in the minds of future young generations. 

Equilibrium exists. Each birth, there is a corresponding death. Death is the only door to pass through for transition to the other side. If death is not to be fear of, much more the cause?

Mama Consi is the only one I know a person of down-to-earth attitude who never hesitate to do everything to help anyone in need. Her excellent verbal ability matched with amiable personality endeared her to relatives and friends. From birth to death don't have an opportunity to well-off life. She is the aunt of my wife but we treat each other as very good friends. She died of stroke and interment is due on August 15,2015. I will sorely miss her every time there is a toast in the house.

 n myriad of seasons till a blossom
    glances with eyes  damn sleek
Born in the eldest ray till you run and speak.

Rain or shine covers the head with the palms,
The day's labor Grapples with the brain
Until the sun got caught snoring when--
Misery and pleasure embed in weary sleep
The torment and glee forever awake
Six decades are hard days but never shakes.

Wounds are divine gifts! Passkeys to true joy
Pain entombed and eyelids are tight close
Now are delights and burdens are fettered
Bliss floods the river of happy mem'ries
Heaven sings hymns for your joyful return
By your side, we find ourselves sobbing, weeping.

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