Life turns, and returns death. Where death digs its claws into the grave only to pull out life, as a baby from a womb; and the recycle of air, the recycle of struggles that never achieve satisfaction, in a constant turning world, of an untuned universe.
Do we kill time, or does time ultimately kill us?
Life happens, whether you're in it or not, but death doesn't give you a choice.
Life is short enough, there is nothing worth here to take your life, and those things we do gain can never be taken to our grave.
Poverty is like a crumb that sits at a table, and starves itself to death.