Death is a phonecall.
Death has no voice,
but with a sound announces his arrival.
Death finds me in a taxi.
He finds me at the dinner table.
Death finds me on a lazy Sunday morning
and on a Monday’s midday peak at work.
Death finds me on a train..
My train goes forward.
But I travel back to Death.
He finds me and I cannot shut his mouth,
while mine I cannot use.
For what use are words when death arrives?
Death is a burden that sits on my throat,
A knot of pain in my stomach..
Before I break into tears.
Before my own voice breaks..
Death splits my words,
the way he comes between two lives.
The way he enters, from everywhere..
He has the right, always –
Death finds me in the day,
alone and in company of others.
He comes in every parallel form,
in disguise, in surprise, hidden, sometimes invited.. but rarely invited.
He leaves behind Hope lying in the sea bed, sunk in a sea of despair. Time will swallow this sea, until the sun gazes again upon Hope.
And until then, I carry her. I carry her..