White-clothed people

I once walked with white-clothed people.

Their faces were covered with handkerchiefs.

Their eyes were unseen because of sunglasses.

Late afternoon, I sauntered with them.

Though scourging heat blasted, we carried on.

Few would mind, they were feign.

The walk was dawdling and steady.

Though truly it was long and tiring,

The genuine never stopped to rest, not a even a minute.

Until we reach the expected point, 

An emotion was starting to stood out.

For we all saw the unwanted abode.

The dwelling place of the quiescent,

The domicile of better than the living.

The home of the sleeping and absent.

Sentiments were beginning to surge.

While some were subtle, still feelings were discerned.

But the most who have loved cannot be discreet.

I looked now at their uncovered faces, all wet and lonely.

I looked at their eyes, all swollen and pained.

But there was a glow. Deep and ambiguous.

Everyone was mourning, I was even sorrowful.

Cries, sobs, whispering.

Sympathies, verses, praying.

"Man's fate is like that of the animals;

the same fate awaits them both:

As one dies, so dies the other.

All go to the same place;

all come from dust, and to dust return."

The dead found its peace.

It shall no longer toil nor be in agony;

It shall no longer see evil.

The living are to be comforted.

It shall continue to eat, to drink, to work.

And be satisfied until it, too, shall reach its end.

All along, I was walking with the white-clothed people.

How I didn't notice, I was following the dead.

We were following our destiny.

I once walked with black-clothed people.

Their faces were covered with handkerchiefs.

Their eyes were unseen because of sunglasses.

Late afternoon, I sauntered with them.

Though it was rainy and cold, we carried on.