Curse you, if you weep on my deathbed.
[Its mine, isn’t it? My right to lay the rules…]
Why cry, why depress me, on my death?
I know. Soon, I’ll be gone-
I’m weak, flimsy, dying;
(why rub it in?)
my face’s sunk in,
I look like death warmed up;
my speech’s slow, labored,
I fail to breath, am in pain,
hell, I AM dying!
Death’s no stranger-
is an old companion.
I’m no immortal to believe
in an everlasting life.
Life’s too harsh a reality
to forget Death’s constant constancy.
So why laud him, praise him, as he takes me?
Why celebrate him in my presence?
There’ll be time enough, when I’m gone,
and I don’t have to see, your downcast face.
Hold it friend, don’t think me amiss, but
dare not weep on my deathbed.
There’ll be time enough for that, later.
Just now, bless me with your smile,
your presence, your love-
show me your self for,
we’ll be parted soon,
and no time will there be for that, later.
©GayUganda 31 August 2008