My Sweet Little Death
By Mostafa Hodaee
The world’s ablaze with melancholy,
And I stand, as the tiniest sparkle
On the highest flames,
Rising even higher than the roots of nature.
The lunatic little greedy grey cells,
Mad with fury, crazed with sadness,
They stumble, grumble, so humble in my skull.
The brain goes insane, all struggles are in vain,
The day will come, and the night will fall,
The witch will curse, and the dead will rise,
The monsters will appear, and the goblin’s eyes,
All so intimate, all so close,
All so mad, like the very eyes of sadness;
All on the verge of insanity, on the edge of proclamation,
Crawling with toothless jaws, dazzling, so dazzling,
Creeping into the loopholes of the darker world.
My luggage is ready, the bus is here,
The windows are sealed, my death is near.
The mindless talk is so queer, but the strains to talk
Won’t end up with cheer. And soon, the death-bus will veer
And we all, and all that are dear, even the ones who sneer,
Yes, all, in a sight so drear,
Clap for the wisest seer, who makes the coast clear,
By declaring that the end of the world is near.
Thus ends the role of life in boundless grace,
Thus opens the chamber of thoughts, so fast in pace,
Thus dies the culprit, and closes the case,
The poor old chap! Now lost in space.
The death-song is heard, the death-row prepared.
So stand in your positions, you cowardly skin-and-bones!
And smile at the grace of time. For it stoppeth not
Where you shall desire, it all shall end right here,
Right in your fairest moment of this-worldly fire.
Climb it! Climb it! It’s been raised just for you,
Raised so that you can grasp it and go down,
Yes, climb! But go down, for the world is reversed,
And all ladder is but cursed.
All time, all action. Every manner so perverted
Looks so fair in our mirror. For the world is reversed,
And all mirror is but cursed.
We venture not into the dark forest, but
We well can hear the creepy voices off the distance,
For he who shall never rest, he knows well,
The hidden fortunes, our secret sins, but
He appeareth not, and not till the end of time,
When we’re all caught in a fork deep in the forest,
And failing to choose right, we take the darker path.
The road goes to neverland, and having done so
Breaks the gates of flesh and mortality, till it shivers, quivers
And falls apart.
And there I stand, or rather lie,
Under the wreckage,
Below the darkest sky.