Death will come and will bear your eyes –
this death of ours, escorting us
from morning until dusk, restless,
deaf, like an old regret
or an unreasonable vice. Your eyes
will be a vain word
a silent cry, a silence.
That’s how you see them every morning
when you bend over yourself
in the mirror. O hope,
that day we too will know
you are life and you are the nothing.

To each, death has a gaze.
Death will come and will bear your eyes.
It will be like quitting a vice,
like seeing in the mirror
a dead face resurfacing,
like listening to a shut lip.
Voiceless, we will go spiraling down.