String

Beads I gather
Some, old and wise
Like the wood antique, in faded classiness
Some fragile and glossy
Like the bubbles that froth in a brook
under the glazing sun
A few feathered ones that fly with just a silent breath
Some of those chiselled from stones so strong
And some like leaves of peepal withered after a storm
Then there are the cushiony ones
Like the buttons of a flower
Not to fail to name the ones that reflect
Like the marble eyes of a gleeful child
All of them have I
As they all skate down
the string of my life
Bequeath to whom shall I
to adorn this marvel ?
Or will it just grace my stone with my final goodbye?