We learn this truth when we die.
Life, not death, is goodbye.
Death is on the other side
where love’s mysteries reside.
My death was strange:
limited with an unlimited range.
Every face I saw disappear
in sadness came back with cheer.
I, who am not famous, made the famous famous.
But death reverses this
because at the end we see all.
A great mountain is a painted wall.
Luck is a fountain inside that mountain
drinking itself greedily,
laughing, ourselves to see.
Gone every vulgarity and bully.
The clocks stopped. (What time was it?)
And I was free.