Poetry

When death comes…

When death comes like the hungry bear in autumn;

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;

when death comes like the measle-pox;

when death comes like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common

as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,

tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say:

all my life I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

by Mary Oliver

Integral psykoterapeut, MPF. Har udøvet meditation og mindfulness siden 1994 indenfor flere traditioner, men mest Vipassana. Flydende i Dansk, Engelsk og Tysk

Skriv et svar

Din e-mailadresse vil ikke blive publiceret. Krævede felter er markeret med *