Is Death Really Of The Nature Of Life, Dear God? Poem by Erhard Hans Josef Lang

Are we really present in this body
when we pass at night
through our lands of dream?
Supposed we wanted to
know what 'we' really are
beyond the pleasing hurting physics.

If sleep is a continually needed stop for reshaping-up,
metered out over one and same vehicle of life,
that, as we all are, is
struggling so wearily
by all means of inner qualities,
in an ever growing turmoil of outer nature,
while really trying hard, somehow,
time and again, in all possible kinds of habitat,
to raise sharp-defining matches on flatly impossible conditions,
and all of this
just to survive this blunt massive gravity
that endlessly causes each and everything,
in its unrelenting grip of the elements of creation,
to whirl about:

Is not death then just the
well-deserved resting of a bored player who,
finally having managed the
clearing of the table of his
game set-up of chances,
eventually run stale-mate,
settling to relax for a while,
either sitting idle on the spot or
doing other things in
another world of schemes meanwhile,
getting ready, eventually,
for a new round of the old game,
there back home again
hopefully with an
enjoyable set-up of the
allotted player marbles?

Oh dear God high above,
would You allow me for once
to shake and thrust that
tumbler of fate's dice
myself?