"The Mourning" - Bahamas AI Image
©A. Derek Catalano
Too Young to Die
The morning sun begins to rise and cast its golden gleam,
Awaking all the sleeping earth from midnight’s quiet dream.
The world is wide, the road is long, the canvas freshly spun,
With miles of promises to keep beneath the rising sun.
Yet in the quiet of the dawn, a haunting shadow falls,
A whisper in the shifting wind that echoes through the halls.
It speaks of beauty cut too short, of stars that lose their light,
Before they ever have the chance to blaze across the night.
To look upon a youthful face, a heart untouched by years,
And see the sudden, heavy weight of unpredicted tears,
Is to behold the greatest grief the human heart can hold—
A story left unfinished, and a history untold.
The world is full of vibrant hope, of plans and grand designs,
Of heavy books with empty pages waiting for their lines.
The silver cord is snapped too soon, the fragile glass is dry,
When voices call into the dark: “They were too young to die.”
The Unwritten Pages
We count the years by winters passed and seasons left behind,
But metrics fail to measure out the brilliant human mind.
A youth is like a sudden spark, a tempest wild and free,
A vessel pushing outward toward a vast, uncharted sea.
They harbor dreams of grand designs, of changing how we live,
With so much passion left to spend and so much love to give.
They see the world with open eyes, untamed by cynical thought,
Believing in the battles that their elders never fought.
Then comes the cold, unyielding hand that steals the breath away,
That turns the brilliant gold of youth into a somber gray.
The artist drops the paintbrush, and the poet drops the pen;
The melody is broken, never to be played again.
A seat is empty at the board, a coat hangs on the door,
And footsteps that we listened for will walk the hall no more.
The laughter that once filled the room becomes a ghost-like sigh,
A bitter, crushing testament to those too young to die.
We count the years by winters passed and seasons left behind,
But metrics fail to measure out the brilliant human mind.
A youth is like a sudden spark, a tempest wild and free,
A vessel pushing outward toward a vast, uncharted sea.
They harbor dreams of grand designs, of changing how we live,
With so much passion left to spend and so much love to give.
They see the world with open eyes, untamed by cynical thought,
Believing in the battles that their elders never fought.
Then comes the cold, unyielding hand that steals the breath away,
That turns the brilliant gold of youth into a somber gray.
The artist drops the paintbrush, and the poet drops the pen;
The melody is broken, never to be played again.
A seat is empty at the board, a coat hangs on the door,
And footsteps that we listened for will walk the hall no more.
The laughter that once filled the room becomes a ghost-like sigh,
A bitter, crushing testament to those too young to die.
The Weight of Silence
The hardest part for those who stay, who walk this earth alone,
Is carving out a monument upon a freezing stone.
To write a name upon the marble, framed by dates so near,
That prove the stay was just a flash, a brief and passing year.
The parents weep for futures lost, for weddings never seen,
For all the milestone moments and the spaces in between.
They mourn the children never born, the legacy undone,
The shadow that eclipsed the bright, ascending morning sun.
"The clock ticks on for everyone, its rhythm stern and slow,
But nature screams in agony when children have to go.
For age should be the prerequisite to join the quiet dust,
And taking youth before its time feels cruel and unjust."
We question why the fairest flowers are gathered up so fast,
Why things of such sweet innocence are never made to last.
The heavens offer no reply, the stars maintain their place,
While sorrow leaves its permanent engraving on the face.
We wrap ourselves in memories, like blankets in the cold,
And treasure every fragment of the stories we were told.
The hardest part for those who stay, who walk this earth alone,
Is carving out a monument upon a freezing stone.
To write a name upon the marble, framed by dates so near,
That prove the stay was just a flash, a brief and passing year.
The parents weep for futures lost, for weddings never seen,
For all the milestone moments and the spaces in between.
They mourn the children never born, the legacy undone,
The shadow that eclipsed the bright, ascending morning sun.
"The clock ticks on for everyone, its rhythm stern and slow,
But nature screams in agony when children have to go.
For age should be the prerequisite to join the quiet dust,
And taking youth before its time feels cruel and unjust."
We question why the fairest flowers are gathered up so fast,
Why things of such sweet innocence are never made to last.
The heavens offer no reply, the stars maintain their place,
While sorrow leaves its permanent engraving on the face.
We wrap ourselves in memories, like blankets in the cold,
And treasure every fragment of the stories we were told.
A Call to Cherish
Yet in the depth of heavy grief, a vital lesson thrives,
To honor every single day that graces through our lives.
For youth is not a guarantee of decades left in store,
And time is but a fleeting wave that washes on the shore.
We cannot waste the precious hours on malice, greed, or pride,
With so much beauty in the world and so much life inside.
We have to love with open hearts, to speak the words we mean,
Before the final curtain falls upon the mortal scene.
So let us lift a silent toast to those who left too soon,
Who vanished like a shooting star beneath the crescent moon.
Though brief their stay, their impact stays as permanent as ink,
To remind us of the fragile edge of life's uncertain brink.
They teach us how to value breath, to look up at the sky,
And live so fully that we honor those too young to die.
Yet in the depth of heavy grief, a vital lesson thrives,
To honor every single day that graces through our lives.
For youth is not a guarantee of decades left in store,
And time is but a fleeting wave that washes on the shore.
We cannot waste the precious hours on malice, greed, or pride,
With so much beauty in the world and so much life inside.
We have to love with open hearts, to speak the words we mean,
Before the final curtain falls upon the mortal scene.
So let us lift a silent toast to those who left too soon,
Who vanished like a shooting star beneath the crescent moon.
Though brief their stay, their impact stays as permanent as ink,
To remind us of the fragile edge of life's uncertain brink.
They teach us how to value breath, to look up at the sky,
And live so fully that we honor those too young to die.
©A. Derek Catalano/Gemini
