Those Who Die While We’re Unaware

 

Those who die while we’re unaware

And grow older in the graves,

I wonder, what do they think of?

Are they pessimistic?

Do they have the same dreams as us

Or is it only the living who feel pessimistic and dream?

Do they mock our agonies,

Or do they shed tears in secret like us?

Why, then, do they smile whenever we mention them,

And why do they sit stealthily among us,

Without asking for permission,

Dance and revel,

And release from our windows

The doves of speech and the bees of kisses,

If we feel tired, fall silent

Or lose hope?