Dear Death

Dear Death,
my Daddy says
I cannot write to you
like I write
to Father Christmas.
Why?
I am trying anyways,
because
I want to make a wish:
Can you say „Hi“
to Grandpa,
please?

Mortal child,
quite right thy father is,
for I am not
the one in red.
He giveth,
and I only take away.
He grants wishes,
I am the end
of wishing all.
Thus, no messenger am I,
thy foolish wish
I’ll never grant.
Farewell, until
I’ll take you
at your
end.

Death,
as darkness falls
and I lie bound
to this cold hospital bed
I cannot help
but recollect
the letter I once sent.
Considering your grim reply
you're reaching for me soon.
So I shall take the liberty
to write now once again.
All I really have to say
will be put in the close:
I remain
sincerely
not yours
yet

Young mortal,
thy letter I remember well,
and also my reply.
Grim is my nature,
grim my task,
grim my dark abode.
I cannot be anything
other than what I am.
And when I indeed do reach for thee,
my hand will grasp thee
without fail.
In thy sickness, mortal,
feel my shade,
but see not yet
my hand.
That is still
a long time hence,
I do not
reach for thee.
Thy anger, mortal,
toward me
is waste,
thy strength
must use to fight,
to heal.
Thy correspondence
does amuse
me
in my lonely work.
Continue, pray.
(Postscriptum: Thy parent’s
parent sendeth thee
his love.)

Death,
it's been a while
and I just thought
that I should write again.
In discussion
during homeroom
today arose
your name.
I thought you might
or may not like
to hear a thing I said:
That maybe
you're not quite as mean
when one gets close
to being dead.
And with these words
of correspondence
I grant your wish, as
you,
although delayed,
have granted mine.
And I will finish
by assuring
that you'll hear
of me again.

Young mortal,
I am quite surprised
that one so young
should think such things.
Young mortals only think of life,
of future,
procreation,
acquiring a mate,
not of the end.
I do find myself
by thy insight
most refreshed.
Often, indeed, I find
that when I come
for mortals old
and feeble
in their years,
that I am
welcome,
while the young
do fight me
and think me most cruel
to fetch them
in their prime.
I feel that thou hast paid
me a great compliment
indeed.
It is most welcome,
as are thy letters
are to me.
Thy insight
and thy thoughtful mind
will serve thee well.
Farewell, I hope
to read from you
again
in a short while.

Death,
finally,
I've graduated
…
Death,
I've met this guy
he seems quite nice
…
Dear Death,
we're moving!
We're moving in
with each other
…
Dear Death,
I think I'm pregnant,
I still haven't
quite grasped
what's happening
…
Dear Death,
she's been born!
She's so
incredibly
beautiful.
.
.
.

Why?!
Why'd you take her?
She's barely
opened her eyes
on this world!
Has barely started
walking.
How do you
dare take her
without even
the slightest words
of warning?!
How dare you!

Mortal,
I am Death.
The Final Truth.
The Last of Certainties.
How dare I take her?
How darest thou
expect,
even demand
of me
a warning
of my advent
in thy house?
-
Dear mortal,
I am Death,
the last of journeys,
the final rest.
I do not allot the time
that mortals have
in mortal realm.
I simply
gently
guide the souls
of those
whose time
is at
an
end.

Death,
in protection
of a child,
a mother
never asks for
what she dare
expect
or what she is
allowed
to do.
Dear Death,
I feel that,
in my grief,
an old illness
has grabbed me
again.
And grabs me tight.
Dear Friend,
I think I am
finally ready
to meet with you
in person.

Dearest Caren,
as I write this,
imagine
soon
thy troubles end,
thy grief resolved,
thy toil at rest.
A gentle hand
that lifteth thee
into restful
eternity.
As now you read
these my last lines
look up
and see
before thee
me,
thy
Death.