There is a hand
Brushing dirt from my eyes.
It cares and grieves for me;
I, who do not see.
Who do not see now and never will.
Who did not see the Cloud that
Cut my lungs and drowned my sight.
I was uncomprehending when the coughing began,
I am uncomprehending now.
It is lonely in death,
But there are many with me.
Many who felt as I had felt
And knew the agony of that November night.
I know now why they paint Death as a formless specter
And now I know the taste of death.
Mid Dec 1984
K’ thala