Death will come and it will have your eyes—
this death that accompanies us
from morning to evening, sleepless,
deaf, like an old remorse
or an absurd vice. Your eyes
will be a vain word,
a silenced cry, a silence.
Thus you see them every morning
when you alone bend over
the mirror. Oh dear hope,
that day we will also know
that you are life and you are nothing.
For everyone, death has a gaze.
Death will come and it will have your eyes.
It will be like quitting a vice,
like seeing in the mirror
the face of the dead reemerge,
like listening to a sealed lip.
We will descend into the abyss silent.