To This Day

How much pain can one man sow?
How much love can one man keep?
How much joy can one man grow?
How much grief can one man reap?

I was walking one morning through the woods near my house, contemplating the state of humanity. I approached a small pond and sat down to rest. It was hot that day, dreadfully hot. My mind drew blank as I stared at the various flora and fauna. I remember the only thing I was doing, running my fingers through the blades of grass beside me. I don't know why I did it. Perhaps it was boredom, I've long since forgotten the reason. One thing however, still lingers in the furthest regions of my thoughts. On the cuff of my shirt landed a butterfly, a painted lady. I recall the rich hues of orange covering her wings, and splotches of black adding contrast. I reveled in the beauty of such a small creature. Then sorrow began to scratch the back of my mind and bring forth a hint of cynicism. It would be dead soon. This creation of beauty that now rests in my hand, would soon fall to the cruelty of nature's design. Something so full of life and elegance would be dead within the month. I began to question the fairness of life. How could something that brings such joy and pulchritude be condemned to live such a wanting and short life? In an instant, the lady left me. To this day I am left with the same question.

Who can say when one will die?
Who can say when one will live?
Who can say?