A softer gold,
   and suddenly the eys
        are seeing,
the wind has cooled,
   and I remember fading things,
like the strength of winter,
   a season close to death,
        if death is anything
             like sleeping.
Or freezing.
   They say death is nothing,
        the onset of nothingness,
    like a disease.
But even a disease is living,
   even a disease grows and evolves;
death is always the same.
I don't know where it goes,
   that nothing,
that empty that spreads from empty,
     only that it must be
          different from winter,
because all things return from winter,
                  except the dead.