Meditation On Cold
Speak of 'death' and feel an ice-cold breeze
Sweep the grandest room of sound;
Even the master of ceremonies
Is cold and still.
Dwell in confessional catacombs
Repeating it over and over again:
Death!
Death!
Death!
Death has an infinite appetite
To swallow all moments in time.
The surge of a stampeding crowd
Crushes the drying unnoticed dead carcass
Of a hollowed out beetle on Mexican tiles.
The grip on life and death is strong.
(but life is a finite and sees - death is eternal and blind)
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