Death and the Hillside

The moment I was born I died
and buried far beneath the earth.
My mother's tears ran down the side
of roses plucked just after birth.

Death swindled me the breath of air,
the warmth of friendly laughter,
the anxious rush of loving stares...
Death left me the hereafter.

I've got to know him quite well, Death.
He's kinder than they're saying,
so though I never drew first breath
I'm given time for praying.

I wonder, sometimes, just what I
might be, had life been granted.
By gentle mountains I might lie
near lilies, freshly planted.

Death tells me he's quite fond of me,
and never misses dinner.
I wonder that he doesn't see
I'm such an awful sinner.

I've not reproached him for my life;
the taking's in his nature,
and confrontation leads to strife...
far better this erasure.

It's peaceful life, this life with Death,
I don't mean to complain,
but what's this pulsing underneath
the wirings of my brain?

I shouldn't want what I can't have,
so I don't want life, either.
I mean, it's not like I'm a slave
to every Death's desire...

I want to live! Let me go back
and breathe through newborn lips.
But it can't be, and so I'm wracked
with wanting's stabbing tips.

The moment I was born I died,
but Death's been kind so far.
So thought I've wept and though I've sighed,
we must be what we are.