The gift comes wrapped in mortal threads,
To spend the years allotted them,
In quiet peace or frequent pain
Together doing what they deign.

The gift is life, once given, lives
Beyond a single breath of time.
The package, all alone, returns
To ashes in a soon forgotten urn.

The gift of life is just a loan
To be returned without a scar
On dates determined, not to cut short
By self or through the folly to abort.