When joy and peace are mine,
I call death an end-
the close of happy things.
But when my body writhes in pain,
I see in death
suffering taken to its utmost.

The former bears the arrogance of distance,
the pride born of safety.
The latter-
pure cowardice.
Is death the final terror of humankind?

Illness must descend,
now and then-
to remind me I am small.
Identity, future, fame-forgotten.
Solely the urgency to ease the pain,
and the dread of more.