My life is but a borrowed gift
I must return one day.
With interest harsh, assay my thrift,
do I that debt repay?
I live, I die, it matters not
to those that claim my space.
Returned to earth, my flesh will rot,
while I, due judgment face!
But if some trace I'd leave behind
I'd want well chosen word.
Not marked by stone so few will find
but only word both read and heard.
Gerald Bosacher