Loving death
With all of its requisite pains,
Has come
To each of us in its own way
Each secret strand is strange to the others
Though they flow from the same spring
Silent and dark, barren and daring
You always feel
It is your fault:
“What did I do to deserve this?
“There must have been something.”
No one else seems to be suffering
In this way
Though they suffer in secret
With the same questions
When you first woke up, you did not know death
Though you were given directly from it
You were born ...