The Cradle and the Grave

I have been wondering lately,
Of things I cannot seem to know,
Why every seed must split itself,
Before it ever starts to grow.

How the sun that wakes the morning flower,
Will watch its colours fade away.
How the rain that feeds the roots below,
Can wash the soil that made them stay.

How the hand that holds a candle,
Must still surrender it to the night.
How the stars that guide the traveller,
Must disappear before the light.

For what must a fish believe of water,
That carries it from birth to end?
The same clear depths that let it breathe,
Will watch its final moments descend.

The ocean was its first true home,
The only world it ever knew,
Yet still the water that kept it alive,
Becomes the water it is cooked into.

And they say a fish that keeps its mouth shut,
Will never meet the waiting hook.
That silence is the safest road,
And wisdom is the choice it took.

But tell me, is it wiser then to never speak, to never fight?
Or does the fish that fears the line, still lose to something out of sight?

And maybe I am wrong to ask,
Or maybe asking is the cost.
For every soul that seeks the truth,
Must first accept how much is lost.

So if the cradle holds the grave
And mercy carries the pain along,
If all that teaches us to live
Must teach us where we don’t belong…

Then tell me, was the world made strange?
Or have we simply lost the sight,
To understand why everything that gives us breath
Can also take our light?