by Marcello Comitini

Death will come without eyes and without a voice.
Blind and deaf she will touch us
with his gaunt fingers.
We will turn around and we will not see that our absurd vice
and regrets like dogs that tear to pieces the unwary
ventured into the life exchanged
for a love game .

We will then know that deception has a sweet face
lips that betray, voice that is lost
in the echo of the mirror where every morning
our incredulous eyes see
that vain hope.

Death will come without eyes and without a voice.
Blind and deaf she will touch our shoulder.
We will turn around and know then that death
he does not have the sweet face of deception
that his lips give the only kiss
of eternal hope.

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Image by Carmelo Lombardo