What it must be to be a bird,
Fly so humbly above Earth,
Catch a solemn breeze,
make friends amongst sighing trees.

What it must be to leave the body,
Planted so firmly to dirt,
would it be joyous, or would it hurt,
to abandon loved ones choked by dirt?

What it must be to go to Heaven,
Chasing stars, caressing moons.

Promiscuous is the mind that thinks
to flirt with Death so soon.