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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

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