Love—is anterior to Life—Posterior—to Death—
Initial of Creation, and
The Exponent of Earth—–Emily Dickinson
Every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls.
Interned in the sanatorium of Herisau (Switzerland), Walser used to write ‘micrograms’, (undecipherable short texts handwritten in a nano text-size), and take long walks. On the 25th of December 1956 he was found, dead of a heart attack, in a field of snow near the asylum.
I wanted to give you something —no stone, clay, bracelet,no edible leaf could pass through.Even a molecule's fragrance by then too large.Giving had been taken, as you soon would be.Still, I offered the puffs of air shaped to meaning.They remained air.I offered memory on memory,but what is memory that dies with the fallible inks?I offered apology, sorrow, longing. I offered anger.How fine is the mesh of death. You can almost see through it.I stood on one side of the present, you stood on the other.–Jane Hirshfieldfrom Come, Thief
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox:
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it's over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
A lover looks at creek water and wants to be that quickto fall, to kneel, then allthe way down in full prostration. A lover wants to die ofhis love like a man withdropsy who knows that water will kill him, but he can't denyhis thirst. A lover lovesdeath, which is God's way of helping us evolve from mineralto vegetable to animal, the oneincorporating the others. Then animal becomes Adam, and thenext will take us beyond whatwe can imagine, into the mystery of we are all returning.Don't fear death. Spill yourjug in the river! Your attributes disappear, but the essencemoves on. Your shame and fearare like felt layers covering coldness. Throw them off, andrush naked into the joy of death.–Rumi
I am not I.
I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
who remains calm and silent while I talk,
and forgives gently, when I hate,
who walks where I am not,
who will remain standing when I die.
–Juan Ramón Jiménez