"In three days I shall become very ill and in thirty-four days
     I shall die." — Magdalena Beutler of Freiburg (1407-1458)

To have that kind
of certainty, to want

more than to begin
in rain, to believe

the sky is empty
and you the only light.

I don't even know when
or if I sleep,

or if I only think
about sleep.

Most of the time my body
turns wrong.

How can I fear losing
this visible world?

And yet I do. Fear.

Each night not long enough
to endure.

Each day something less
to lose.

There is an absence,
a coffin in which we wait.

The body dead.
The heart still living.

The shower of voice,
as always, unwilling,

or unable to say a thing.