Evening.
Beyond the window,
the sky stretches wide.
Being born.
One day, passing away.
With no answers,
another day draws to a close.
A hundred years from now.
Two hundred years from now.
Will someone
I will never know
look up at the sky
just as I do?
Will they, too,
pause for a moment,
and wonder
at the mystery of being alive?
The wind blows.
Across the distant future sky,
clouds drift by.
I close the window.
Night
quietly arrives.
