Death by loss of ancestors

The time. It weakens us.
The ultimate enemy we know is unslayable but still we strive to defeat it.
None could argue against this principle,
Except we fail to include the other parts of us attacked by this vicious concept,
Those outside of our body,
Those that are both unique by themselves but many through their descendants.
Time slowly kills us but it kills the ancient souls we are made of faster.

Maybe we get weak with age because the more mature you become, the more of your forefathers and foremothers succomb.
The more time passes, the more you grow and age, the less guides you have still present to teach and protect you.
Each year threatening you with the departure of another one.

As you get through the trials of existence,
Those who were once roaming this Earth in all their care and wisdom,
Those who genetically and symbolically gave you some if not most of themselves,
One by one they leave this astral plane.
Leaving you behind, older, but incomplete,
Weaker and never again whole.
One by one they exit this dimension taking along all of what made them,
Taking the once alive part of you with them and crossing the bridge from the physical to the spiritual realm.
Becoming spirits you can only call upon, memories you can only praise or pray to.

I believe we are made of those who came before us, those who poured themselves into our blood and heritage, creating and allowing us to shine a new but ancestral glory.
How do we keep existing when the pieces of our being cease to ?
How not to become a fragile entity when the colors of our canvas disappear ?
We are but just a garden,
Made luxurious by the trees and flowers planted by our ascendants,
Each root firmly planted in the soil of what we were, are and will become.

We fear an end led by sickness, injuries or violence, more or less sudden ways to cease to exist,
But death by loss of ancestors is creeping and subtle, menacing as an unhurried golden bullet aiming for your heart.

I now choose to pay more attention to my garden and its keepers.
Our mothers and their mothers may float onto more unknown pastures,
But I will look after the pieces they left me so their light may never faint.
So their core stay well grounded into my space,
So they can live on through their children.
I will summon them as I plant my own seed,
Whisper to it the same loving words the ancients whispered to me,
Hum the same powerful lullabies they sang to me,
Make it so their roots intertwine with the supreme.

Until we are all one, again.

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J'ai des jolis mots, parfois.

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