But For Death, How Would We End?

The time draws near, our time to die.
In the air I feel it coming
As I stop to watch the people running;
As if his shadow, his grasp, his presence
Were merely fleeting, illusory wisps
Of incorporeal vapors,
And thus, by the foot, escapable.

O fervent fools they are
To believe this day might never come,
Or fail to realize that in owning life
One must also own up to his ensuing death.
To plan for it...
To work for it...
Indeed, to all but die for it!

And yet what is death
That we should fear it so?
Is just another life, another start.
Simply put, a new beginning...
Another journey down a different path...
Turning right at the fork in the road
Where earlier we had once turned left.
Just another journey, with a different beginning
And a different ending as well,
Sometimes better, occasionally worse,
But really, on the whole, not that different
From the road we currently travel.
But that our present destination
And our final journey's end will differ,
The two paths are really quite similar,
And both are of equal importance -
The one always necessary to the other.
For without the life and the living,
What reason have we to mourn the dead?
And without this death,
What cause have we to celebrate the life?

Death is not to be perversely sought or longed for,
Yet nor is he to be feared.
His presence in this universe is as obliquely natural
As both yours and mine.
So know, when he does come,
He is to be embraced and welcomed,
Because, when all is said and done,
Without him...
Without an end in our lives somewhere...
How could we go on?
How, indeed, could we go on?