It is not a fire That falls off the sky These are not comets Under the lid of the eye It is not a plague That causes the rash It is not contagious In the lazaret for one It is not a tragedy If no one else saw the blood It is not a disaster If it blasts underground It is not bad news If it's not news at all It is not an epitaph As the breath's not the word It is a shiny light of pleroma Cutting its rays off Banishing limbs From the body Into the exile As limbs hold themselves tight while falling Like it was a flesh of A disintegrating Petrified reptile And as the wild drum of the pulse hits its last notes, you are closer to the truth It is not the world that is dying, it is you