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“from the crib where you once was bit to the crypt you’ll be as twice shy of”
Joyce / Finnegans Wake

 

How dead to the dead the night must seem
As they wait for the world to pick up steam

And watch resigned each breathing back
And count in snores their own sad lack

Of breath to cloud a window’s pane
Or call in sleep another’s name.

In life we rarely look ahead
To nights when we too will be dead.