The Voice

As we ascend the Hill of Life,

The words tumble out in heaps,

Their echoes reverberating over hill and land,

Traversing the undulations

In broken syllables.

In the mad rush of the hasty wind,

In the noise of the rushing stream,

With flowers exuding sweet fragrance,

Butterflies and bees sucking at sweet nectars,

Chirrupy birds singing sonorous songs,

And blossoming trees waving warm hands,

The voice is subdued

But the words echo ceaselessly.

As we descend the Valley of Expiration

At the darkening dusk of our existence,

The voice dies in us,

We only hear faint, indistinct whispers;

We strain our ears

Wishing that the words should re-echo audibly,

But there is dead silence where we lie,