I’d write an elegy, but no one
Close to me has died.
I look inside at my heart.
It is very much alive.
It is my mind that deceives me
Into feeling otherwise.
Like a gravedigger that hears rumors of a dying man
And digs his grave preemptively,
So my mind digs into the heart
And tricks my flesh into a constant fear.
And yet, the tides of my soul ebb and flow.
The sun rises, and I look upon the many splendors
Of the world. The gravedigger rests upon
His shovel and catches his breath
And all the sorrows I have known
Are blown away by a sweet gust of morning wind.
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