The Day I Died Poem by Magdalena Biela

I was eighteen,
I woke up that morning
and I thought:
today is my last day on earth.
I went outside,
a November morning
dark and heavy
looked at me morosely.
Yet what I saw was
the fire of a daring sunrise
at the horizon.
The rain fell cold
yet I saw its rhythm,
the physics of its gravity,
the teardrops like diamonds
falling in a silent dreamy dance.
I watched the barren trees
and I saw their heart beating,
the vim in their veins,
the buds and leaves gestating
in their wombs,
waiting for Spring.
I watched the sad wet houses
and I saw life inside their walls,
I felt the scent of morning coffee,
the sleepy fire
laughing in flames
like a newborn waking from a dream.
I knew then that I was happy.
Today, many moons later
I woke up,
in a December morning,
I drank my coffee
watching the trees, the heaven, the rain, the houses,
I heard little voices calling my name
and my grandmotherly hands knew what to do.
I thought a little prayer:
"Thank you for
I haven't been living my life
dead".