But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Comments welcomed. Can fear a thing it will not feel , not seeing That this is what we fear no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round. A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can t escape, Yet can t accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun.