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Death

The body: still warm and seemingly alive.

Like the morning bed remembering still

Dreams and fancies of the past night.

The body: still warm, but alive no more,

As the breath just left it forever behind.

The dawn with her lucent sword has

The stem of the last dream cut off.

There is no turning back to that body

Or dream, despite the grief and pain

For their ending, and soon vanishing away.

Death comes for a reason of justice:

There is more within a soul than 

What a body can possibly dream of.

This More is mostly nameless and unknown,

Yet it’s there, and with gentle voiceless

Urgency demands and needs to be

Listened to, acknowledged, lived maybe.

No matter how long is the ignorance, it will

Eventually appeal to its right and call

Death as its faceless executor. —So we die.

The body: still warm, but not for long,

Already becoming senseless matter again.

There is but a split moment to take

This abysmal decision: again, or never again?

Here the greatest freedom lies, the heaviest

Choice, the hardest challenge of love.

Before the past begins to rotten and smell,

What shall you do? Time is no more,

Reasons vanish like fog in the winds,

Space collapses in one point where

There is room only for a unique say:

Back again? Or something entirely Other?

I trust in the unknown, I trust the

Dark belly of chaos and emptiness. I move.

I shall honor this body still warm but dead

Not by seeking a convenient replacement 

But by sliding in the formless freedom ahead.

The body: cold and still. Dreams are

Gone. The day moves on. Me too.




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