-on my mother's last months, or how
to do the final step without moving
I am not ready to go, she said.
I accepted doctor's verdict;
still, I ask: why me, why now, why?
I hate these vultures, mother,
that eat you from inside.
I faintly see them through your skin,
not even trying to hide.
I am not ready for resignation.
I am so angry about all this.
I am so angry with you.
Your heart is cut in half
and all we see
is darkness:
distrust, anger, fear.
I am not ready for all the answers
that wait for me on the other side.
Oh, let me have my questions please.
Your brains are chopped to pieces.
Little spans of time -
that's all you keep in mind,
and dismiss again with ease.
I am not ready to go.
A premature Tibetan burial,
a cruel death while still alive:
witness of your own decay.
So that's how Mother Nature will finally arrive?
I'll never be ready to go.
Wait until she comes over the top,
an almighty demon, an enemy from within.
So that's our clean, sober, rational world:
a cold, efficient killing machine?
I'll never be ready to go.
I'll never be ready to go.
Probably the darkest thing I ever wrote. After the last line I felt nothing could ever be written again. By me at least.