Waiting for the death

Bright shining moon
Reflects the abysmal eyes
Full of nothingness.
I howl from pain,
Waiting for the last seconds
Of my useless breathing.
All the air of the world is never enough
To have a deep sigh
Before I go.
God’s verdict
Has put a mark on me
And all my life,
That has not much left.
I’m not afraid of the old witch in her black robe,
But a smile won’t touch my lips
As I leave.
Sun will keep on shining,
Rain will keep on going,
People will be busy, like they usually are.
But it will not make a difference
For me, because
I will be gone.

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2 comments

  1. Death be not proud, though some have called thee
    Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,
    For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
    Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.
    From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
    Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
    And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
    Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
    Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
    And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
    And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
    And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?
    One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
    And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

    John Donne

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