Wednesday, September 3, 2014

it comes in your sleep







.





Death? It comes in your sleep,
exactly as it should.


When it comes, you'll be dreaming
that you don't need to breathe;
that breathless silence is
the music of the dark
and it's part of the rhythm
to vanish like a spark.
Only a death like that.  A rose
could prick you harder, I suppose;
you'd feel more terror at the sound
of petals falling to the ground.


Only a world like that.  To die
just that much. And to live just so.
And all the rest is Bach's fugue, played
for the time being
on a saw.



–Wislawa Szymborska
 I'm Working On The World









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