Silence is nothing more that the absence of sound.
Death is nothing more than the absence of life.
And what is life, if not sound, feeling, seeing.
What is life if not tasting, yearning, ongoing.
Because even in death we do not end.
Donde hubo fuego, cenizas quedan,
Where there was once love, an imprint remains.
On the world, a place, a home, a person or people.
Is death the absence of life?
Then what is it that keeps us alive?
That keeps us going when the goal for us all is to die?
Isn’t that the pathway to the grand prize?
How we all arrive at the eternal life promised to us by the word of God?
Is death the answer to life?
Does that make life suffering, in turn making death a way out?
Have we become so sated with questions that we have forgotten to live?
Was this the curse unleashed from the tree of knowledge, when Eve made the decision to eat?
Is this endless crisis of existence the fruit that bore of that tree?
Endless questions and endless dreams.
If hope was the last thing that remianed in pandora’s box,
does that not make it a plague all the same?
If silence is nothing, and death is nothing
Does that not then mean that within us lies something?
That in order to fill a space you need more than what physically exists in this space.
There is life, there is death and there is after, even if the something we were ceases to exist.
A Poem a Day 
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