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.