John Donne / A Twilight Rendition
O Death, be not proud! Though ages
Call thee almighty – take heed:
Thou art not so. Thy pale hands
Shall not lay shackles upon life.
Those whom thou, in the despair of a duel,
Hast cast into the dust – they are not dead, poor thing!
It was not fated for them to become only thee,
Into thy decay they shall never enter.
Thou art the slave of ailments, of fate, and of wars,
Thy home is a prison where rot reigns.
A servant of despots, whose spirit, in restlessness,
Uses thee like a poisonous garden.
Poppy juice or the spells of deep slumber
Grant peace better than thy oppression.
Why then dost thou strive? After a short sleep
We shall awaken into a super-stellar world.
But one single breath – and the heights shall bloom,
Where Death exists no more. Death, die and look not back!