God has not shown me in nightdreams
and no sorcerer has divined
where my last day will overtake me
and how my end will look, that I may know.
Whether in my tent, on my couch, I will die
with all my cherished close to me,
every one of them camped mutely around me,
sentries of love and sanctity at my bed,
who will count my last breaths in the bosom of my God
as one would count coveted attainments.
Or, scorned and despised, in the ire of God and man,
hated by my fellows and a fugitive from my family,
on a pile of straw in a forsaken cell
I will emit my vacant and impure soul.
Nobody will attend my spirit’s release
and no hand will shudder over my snuffed-out eyes.
Or perhaps, in my hunger and my thirst
for life and its delicacies,
with loathing in my soul,
in spite of the Creator and his wrath,
I will kick away His gift
and like hurling a soiled shoe from my foot
hurl my soul at His feet.
Or maybe my soul will wait long and longer until it rots,
from too much expectation and too much silence,
and spill upon the earth in my bitterness
as I vomit it like blood from my heart.