“Whispers Through the Trees,” by Gilbert Madrid


Whispers Through the tree

People Destroy things every day,
from regard to idle time,

And some things perish anyway,
from living things to idle minds,

It couldn’t really hurt to die,
no more than it hurts to live,

The people left always cry,
when theres nothing left to give

Death is just the final sleep,
as dust to dirt we go,

In little piles, that dirt we sweep,
and the wind outside still blows.

And the wind kills time itself,
it eats away this earth

And everything once known as wealth,
the wind will turn to dirt,

To know death is to know the wind,
what whispers through the trees,

And death is just another friend,
blowin, on the breeze and
through the tree.