Bagatelle

Bagatelle You see a thing like the old olive tree At the entrance of the village and take it for granted Until you suddenly see the tree is dying Yet, it has about it a none communitive dignity An acceptance that life`s unplanned cosmic shortness. Dying slowly, the medical profession are trying To get more mileage, but in the end the car mechanics Of the body see the case as hopeless, but are bound by The Hippocratic Oath and let us live passed our sell by date. To be dead is to be unborn there is no second coming Not even for a 300 years old tree. Yet, the morning wakes us up with a dance on the duvet And small thoughts take over buying, a pair of shoes All those little bagatelles are the sum of our existence.