Don’t be afraid of dying. The glass of water
Is quickly poured into the waiting goblet.
Your face that will be of no further use to mirrors
Grows more and more transparent, nothing is hidden.
It’s night in the remotest provinces of the brain,
Seeing falls back into the great sea of light.
How strange to see that glittering green fly
Walk onto the eyeball, rubbing its hands and praying.
Don’t be afraid, you’re going to where you were
Before birth pushed you into this cold light.
Lie down here, next to Empedocles;
Be joined to the small grains of the brotherhood.
- Robert Mezey (1935-)
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