And not to feel bad about dying.
Not to take it so personally—
it is only
the force we exert all our lives
to exclude death from our thoughts
that confronts us, when it does arrive,
as the horror of being excluded— . . .
something like that, the Canadian wind
coming in off Lake Erie
rattling the windows, horizontal snow
appearing out of nowhere
across the black highway and fields like billions of white bees.
Franz' s madness overwhelmed him, more so even than his father's. Hell is private, unfathomable except to those who live there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Magnificent. A deep understanding of how exclusion leads to fear. Just brilliant and majestic and straightforward.