from the dead. Thinking, I sit here speaking lies.
Not speaking at all. Why did you have to die? Thinking
how we noiselessly cry. Stare at her, the unblinking.
Why do they block your nose with cotton?
You smell sweet, yet are they scared of the rotten
aroma of death?
I still hear your breath.
It smells sweet.
Why do they wish to carry you away-
you, peacefully sleeping?
While the insipid throng is weeping
And those who love you
Stand above you
Smelling the incense and crying.
I wonder which of us is dying.
You always love the dead. They are beyond our hate.
I can't tell you how I feel, I guess it is too late.
I tell you I hear your breath.
It still smells as sweet.
Which of us is dying now?
I'll tell you when we meet.
That alone gives the dying peace and the living hope.
That we shall meet shortly
Even though only one of us is crying-
We never know who's dying.