During Sickness

They do not hide their hopelessness.
They say: His eyes look dull.
I feel the skeleton
that juts inside my skin.

 

And when I try to stand, I faint,
and lie back with a taste of dirt
that catches in my throat.
My breath disgusts me.

 

Like a sail that slackens at the harbor
now I shudder, seeing the form
of my cadaver shivering
under the sheet.

 

The nurses warm my hands, but still
my flesh feels like a snowdrift
on the bones, my forehead chilled
as if by gusts from nowhere.

 

This is the wind of the abyss,
cool even to the wounds of Christ!
Is it the nothingness of the Skeptics,
or is it the Great All of the Godhead?

 

The defeated doctors act morose,
and people at my bedside lean in
whispering, until the very objects
in the room look struck with fear.

 

Lost! is what they say.
All through my body I can feel
Se déclouer la sombre armure
De ma raison et de mes sens.

 

Je vois l’immense instant suprême
Dans les ténèbres arriver.
L’astre pâle au fond du ciel blême
Dessine son vague lever.

 

L’heure réelle, ou décevante,
Dresse son front mystérieux.
Ne crois pas que je m’épouvante;
J’ai toujours été curieux.

 

Mon âme se change en prunelle;
Ma raison sonde Dieu voilé;
Je tâte la porte éternelle,
Et j’essaie à la nuit ma clé.

 

C’est Dieu que le fossoyeur creuse;
Mourir, c’est l’heure de savoir;
Je dis à la mort: Vieille ouvreuse,
Je viens voir le spectacle noir.
3 octobre 1859.

where rivets in the armor
of my senses have burst loose.

 

And I can see the moment
coming for me through the shadows,
one star in a dawn-leached sky
climbing toward invisibility.

 

The hour of truth,
or ultimate deception, lifts
an inexpressive face, and I feel
less afraid than curious.

 

My soul becomes the pupil of an eye
dilating into the darkness.
Here I am. I try the door of being.
My key rattles in the night.

 

Gravediggers are tearing a way for me
toward God. Since death is knowledge,
to the ancient usherette I say, It’s time!
Take me into the dark to see the show.