The end becomes you.
Dust thickens on the road,
when you pass through the purple evening.
The wind blows colder,
the grass lies down and quails.
The red deer has been dead
for a long time now.
You pass your hand over it
and it gets up,
but it does not breathe.
The trees have been dead trembling.
They do not like the silence
as you walk through them,
as you move away from them and say:
“How long ago did you die?”
The forest is empty—your hair
has never been blacker.
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