Sunday, June 19, 2016
On his deathbed he didn’t think of this or that
Things one might think he’d think of…
Only of things he didn’t do, or wish he had!
He called them Iron Hours, days in his life:
Those he missed, dismissed!
So much so, as with a weary gesture, as if they
Were hewn out of a mountain.
And now with death so very close, he lays
And will die alone, in a hospital room: and he
Know this, well!
The white worm of death is eating into his chest
At his heart, he is pale and panting.
His mind immensely remote, welded to this last
Hour or so; welded as never before.
The young doctor looks in, says:
“Can I give you something to help you sleep?”
“No!” screams the old man, then smiles in dark
Splendor, now utters:
“The day of death no man should squander, miss!”
Mute, the young doctor stood, strange and
Sonorous, as if: far-flung, than the poles of Mars.