Inflicts an outrage on my sense of odor,
Does disenchantment fill me with disgust?
Does Death’s black wing engulf me in its shadow?
And being face to face with life’s fragility
Am I made sick of life?
I am not sick of life.
I prize life more knowing how brief it is,
How insecure, how fragile and how fleeting.
I love the eyes bright with the spark of life,
I love them more knowing they’ll soon be dimmed.