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Sonnet XI. The Death March
Our life on earth is like a time bomb
that started ticking since our birth.
From mother's womb we march to cold tomb
along a path of pain and mirth.
We're born to die -- that is the sad sum.
All shall be dead, be rich or poor bum.
There's simply no escaping it,
be you are witless or with wit.
Those decked with ugliness or beauty,
their attributes cannot survive.
Nobody will remain alive.
Still, there's a reason to be happy:
Longfellow said the grave as goal
was not referring to the soul.
-- Jose Rizal M. Reyes
February 8, 2017A
rhyming pattern: AbAb CCdd Efg Efg
sonnet type: Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin's Onegin Stanza