Dying is not going gently
Into that night it is not even going
Going gone
It is not sweet words repeated into an ear
Hearing the call of another world
No one living can tell
It is not this plane that takes off
And never lands again
It is not those horrific images
The living are capable of producing
To frighten themselves with
It is nothing like what you say
About a seed that disappears into the tunnel
Of time and grows eternal in a multidimensional space
It is no robots working tirelessly
Capturing death in their hearts
It is not something you and I are intimate with
And yet when you stand there
In the doctor’s consulting suite
Listening to the fast beating
Of an unborn baby
Inside a living womb
You experience the sensation of dying
At its mostly lively tip

Ouyang Yu

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