Nicht

			
I am nothing; I am become like death
And yet a little breath I still breathe
He, good death, travels this way
Yet to ease his aching feet my own I heave
The road is long but flat
The sun, to soft eye, gives a little light
And time, cheek’s bane as chilling wind,
Beckons with thin finger towards the end
 
The sole meets neither grass nor grain
How solid the darkness below
That in death the foot needn’t feel nor know
Above and over the chasm whole
 
He comes with steadfast stride
Not slow, but sure
And sure, towards me to collide
 
Towards him I go. Towards me, he
When we meet, finally,
He will look and he will see
How very like himself he to me
 
The wind-kissed blue of cheek and brow
The bitten lips unknowingly hid
The teeth that shine in frigid grey
The ceaseless steps that give him sway
 
Converging on this plane of death,
This place, grey and full of want
Where shall we turn? Or who will turn?