Some

Perhaps we live so we can die and understand,

understand this thing that we call life.

Life that some, if you’re lucky where you’re born, enjoy.

Enjoy it if you can,

child of mine,

but know,

always know that not all who see,

can see what you have seen.

Seen the daffodils at spring,

crabs walking on the beach,

orange leaves falling from trees,

finding snowdrops on their feet.

Feet, what do I need you for,

asked Frida,

Frida Kahlo,

when wings I have to fly.

Flying legs and arms I’ve seen.

All atrocities on screen.

Through screens some live,

or pretend at least,

others document the

nightmares that they live.

Some live the dream.

Some dream of living.

What is living?

Living is, perhaps, waiting to die.

To die and at last to understand,

understand the brief moment,

on our dying darling planet,

we call life.