"Memoir"

Before I die
I owe you a voice that refuses to be silenced
I owe you tears
That constantly flow like a river.
Wish you could hear the cry
That woke up yesterday in his tomb
Or see the pain
That stings tommorow so deep.
We are arrows of fate
Shot sporadically by Divine hands
Our place of landing
Determines how we sprout.
This we don't choose either,
But handed over to us without remorse.
I did sprout here 
On this garden of dead leaves 
And cold whimpers.
Hoping daily that my deep cries 
Will wish away the encroaching pain
But often reminded that cries does the poor no good.
Hence I have clutched onto the fleeing arms of death,
Hoping it bears me and this sorrow away
For all that is coming behind me.