Clean, white and polished like a sleeping pill,
Untouched by the sweaty heat of the morning,
The stripes of the last days at the window say
'Look, that is the world.',
They come in a box, a memory chest,
And my heart beats in it, this chest.
When the dead have survived the living,
The cleansing snow will cover their grey existence,
All the labour, all the moss and lichen,
And we pity ourselves and miss them.
But death helps them escape,
It is not a homecoming, it is not a brave new world,
But an escape and a lucky one, so much
That we want to die over and over,
Seeking and fearing, hoping to see the loving,
Kind and gentle nurse who could heal us
From this disease called living and make us clean.
And I lie in my hospital bed,
My breath slowing down, ever so slightly,
While outside, at my window, the snow has started to fall.
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Comments about this poem (Clean by Jan Hauck )
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