I wither.
Closer and closer to Death I come,
Nearer and nearer to resting in Death's arms.
But I don't die.
The flower withers, becomes like death in
The winter, only to become alive and
Beautiful in spring again.
But not I.
They, who left me to suffer as such,
They have met with Death's grace in
Peaceful slumber as I so wish to.
But I don't die.
I wither. Away into nothingness, closer
To oblivion. Now even the flowers have
Been graced by Death's peaceful sleep,
But not I.
