The dead speak in tongues known only to nightingales perched upon rheumatic knots of Mother Nature trilling: What fresh hell is this?
Their voices echo in crisp cold eves, melding with wind's fierce breath. She welcomes them, wind, embracing martyrs, one by one.
Dear Earth, how short life is. We pay homage to those who travel to better places more so than precise moments of our own existence.
We cannot fully experience what death holds dear. Pure and absolute energy, alive and aligned divine with the universe, whole.
There's no reason to fear existence nor death. They are similar, yet this is the playground, the game board, the poker chip.
Each breath of ours mimics movements elsewhere. Do not think that you do not matter. For every fallen soul, there is birth.
Hassan Saad, 13, who fled Idlib in Syria, flashes a victory sign while walking outside the refugees camp near the Turkish-Syrian border in the southeastern city of Yayladagi, on February 16, 2012. Hassan said that his father was killed by the pro-Syrian President Bashar Al-Assad army five months ago.
© Susan Marie 2012
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