He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.
Dying is an art.
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I have a call.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
For last year’s words belong to last year’s language
And next year’s words await another voice.
And to make an end is to make a beginning.
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all