I Do Not Pity the Dying

Leave me here where the world may be dying,
strip me of the mortal life and give me wings to fly in.

In the city a man is weeping, a bitter marriage between a bottle
he had answered a phone call that had given him a notice
and in turn he gained a thought full.

An elderly woman, too, weeps in bed at night
over a lost lover that she hopes to see again,
to cherish another one of their useless fights,
she would like just one more glimpse of him.

There is not much to see here, in a world where death takes time
in all different forms it comes to us in illness, accidents and crime.

But if I could I'd tell you just one thing,
I'd speak the truth and say I used to pity the dying,
in retrospect it was certainly very stupid of me,
because each day of our silly lives
we are all slowly dying, you see?