Passing By

I sit here, the stained windowsill behind me, and I wonder where my life went. No time to think, or dream, or even think about emotion. Children, grandchildren, generations passing me by without knowing it. The odd wild animal stopping, looking, and then passing on without knowing where it even began. Clouds circling overhead, as if there's nothing to stop them. No pain in those depths, none, no pain to let them pass the time. And yet here I am, and old man, ready to return to them. Don't cry for me, I'm already dead.