I built our home with bleeding hands,
Laid each brick with love and plans.
You were my light, my guiding star,
My reason, my "why," my heart from afar.
Now I just speak to an empty sky,
Still waiting at the door—
Where your laughter used to live,
But it echoes here no more.
Each night I whisper soft and low,
"Come back home… don’t let me go."
But silence is all I know.
You wore your cap, I fixed your tie,
Watched you chase your dream and fly.
I gave you wings, stayed on the ground—
Now you're gone, and time spins around.
Still I wait at the door,
Where your footsteps touched the floor.
Even pain begins to fade,
But love… it always stays.
Still alone, still afraid—
I don’t need much today.
Just to hear you call my name,
To hear you say, “Dad, I remember who you are.”
But wishes don’t reach that far.
So I sing here in the quiet light,
Old and worn, holding tight.
Not for gold, not for fame,
Just to call out your name.
Still waiting.
Still the same.
In every culture, death is more than an end—it's a transformation. Among the many rituals humans perform to honor the departed, cremation is one of the most ancient and symbolic. But beyond tradition lies a deeper, almost mystical truth: when a body is cremated, its physical form is released, and the energy it held is not lost, but simply returned to the universe. According to the law of conservation of energy, energy can neither be created nor destroyed—it only changes form. This means the warmth, motion, and life force that once animated a body doesn't disappear in fire. It transforms. The heat from the flames, the smoke in the sky, the glowing embers—all of these carry fragments of a life once lived. They disperse into the air, the soil, and the stars. Cremation becomes, in this way, a cosmic act. The fire is not just an end, but a release. What was once confined within skin and bones now returns to the great continuum. Some call it spirit. Some call it soul. Science calls...
Comments
Post a Comment