I sit

      in a dead garden



Withered gray stalks

      break under the weight

      of life and death



A corpse, technically more complete

as it has already arrived

      at its destination



Smoke rises

from this lifeless

      place, it suffers no

      illusion, it has seen life

     and now it sees beyond



Dead ants in a dead anthill

     used to be so active

              now they rest where

              they are, now they turn

                                to dust



The butterfly dies too

but who would really want

              to remain a caterpillar?