The Meaning of Life

Upon some obscure mountain peak
capped in snowy whiteness
caught in the void of timelessness
a profound discussion takes place
among the greatest masters.
I listen intently hoping to gain a shred
of wisdom that will explain life to me.

Clothed in robes of shimmering opalescence
flowing beards of distinguished character
they debate philosophy and ponder
and answers that make no sense and
sense that has no answers.

"What is the meaning of life?" I ask.
"And why must there be death?"
"Answer me this if you can."
Finger to chin they scratch their heads,
twist long white hair into a configuration
of nonsense and mutter something symbolic.

Then the day's discussion concludes with
"Even the dove must someday fly
with the wings of a lowly crow."

I leave - to meditate in solitude.