My life is not my life, but a borrowed asset
Set as collateral for a specific time
If I could in an 80 be returned
Then what would be my works?
Or my words or my path, or my traces of ever being borrowed,
Or if lengthened to 100, then what happens?
When my feeble legs is supported by an auxiliary
And my brain becomes too soft to be combed
If even there’s an heir,
Then the irritating cries of enemies awash my coffin.
My life is not my life, but only a borrowed asset to be returned,
For too long a short time.
My money is not my money
But a government of assets circulating minted notes
My properties are not my properties, they are to be bequeathed
To progenies who may not cherish them as I do
Or hold them dear as they ought to.
Or even consult a consultant and sell it off without a blink of two-thoughts.
My body is not my body, but a borrowed vessel of entrails
Washed with painful-ecstasy and ecstatic-pain
Along with memories of friendly-foes who has crossed the bar
Then after decades of complicated joyful-sadness
The body goes to the bank, as it lies still in the damned coffin
Washed with sorrowful cries of living assets
As another un-worked title “late” is added to the title of the deceased.
When I reasoned within my understanding,
Then I understand that my life is but a collateral!