How, Death, should I
fear you? Are you not here, working with me?
Do I not touch you in my eyes; do you not tell me
that you know nothing about anything, that you are hollow,
unconscious, and peaceful?
Do you not enjoy,
with me, everything: glory, solitude,
love, to your very quick?
Are you not standing there,
Death, enduring my life?
Do I not lead you up and down, blind,
like your guide? Do you not repeat
with your passive lips
what I want you to say? Do you not,
like a slave, put up with the kindness with which I compel your favors?
What will you see, what will you say, where will you go
without me? Shall I not be,
Death, your death, whom you, Death, must fear, pamper and love?