i'm working on the world, excerpt

 

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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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