Oh... My Own...
draft MT — needs author review
What is the worst time, or maybe the best, to die?
Such a question, it fills me with such reflection
Is it summer, on a scorching day? or a cold autumn rain?
Or is it better to quietly fade away in the dark?
Far from loved ones, away from home, colourless in the greys
— Then again, what difference does it make, once you know the time has come.
Death is not picky, it doesn’t choose between the seasons
It struts about like a ruthless lady, among us — mortals.
For what can we do, when life was dealt to us grey from the start
In drunken visions, on the stage of life, we play out made-up roles.
In the glow of success’s lights, just far, just further from the dark
Just so as not to lose that boldness, which one drop of rain could wash away..
Yes, indeed, it was long ago, I remember, soaked by the rain
And it was… let me recall… yes, a late autumn hour,
I was walking down a road, in a dense forest, in murky darkness
Heading home, alone, among enormous trees, scared to death.
And don’t be surprised, because in such moments anything can be imagined, invented
Conjuring deranged images and losing yourself forever in an endless abyss of grey
But not for me those doubts, those nightmares, tomorrow’s uncertainty in soulless grey
Not for me the umbrella between the head and the cloud, sheltering from the rain
All of it is only, I believe, unfounded, invented phantoms
The important thing, before it’s too late, before the key word falls, is to think it through in time
Is it worth waiting in fear, hesitating in thought, trembling at the idea of the deadly blow
Or is it better in the light — facing the darkness
Well then, since such is my philosophy about the lights of life and its darkness
Don’t be surprised that I see everything fragile, impermanent, in shades of grey
Maybe somewhere, and I believe something like this exists, it will be colourful after death
I will run like a child, through puddles of golden rain
And every day will be like that late golden autumn hour we dreamed of.
That’s how I see it, how I think, and how I write it, lost in thought.
I know that you know, so I won’t hide that all of this was invented
That this fear of death, and these forests with creatures in the dark
May not make much of an impression on you, but everyone’s time will come in the end
Just think, especially in autumn, in the wet, cold, misty grey
When hurricanes, floods, a cloudy sky wraps itself in a cape of lightning and rain
It’s easy to fall, of course by accident, into the arms of death
TORNADO
Well then, death, my own, and this is my invented vision of you
In the rustle of rain, you wait patiently, hidden in the dark
You hold me with a grey gaze, and wait for the sign that it’s time.
21-09-2012