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It was three Octobers ago
he realized his blood was cooling down.
I am dying, he thought,and shuddered.
He loved life so.
The thought would not leave him.
He spoke of it to others.
Often in jest.
Hoping they’d believe and sympathise.
Afraid they’d believe
and feel secretly superior
for having beaten him at his favourite game: Life.
It was two Octobers ago
he discovered that he had been worrying pointlessly.
He had been dead for years.
Last October his corpse lay among the cold dunes.
Last year bore a cold brittle winter
and everything froze.
just like his dreams and illusions.
The glaciers were adamant
against all the power of early summer.
Surrounded by the icebergs of memory
the corpse lay still
(… ungratefully ignorant that it was this
bitter cold that had preserved it so well).
It was almost August, the month known now
as The Month of Miracles.
For it was in this month
that the Sun took on a new kind of glow.
A young, youthful, torrid glow.
Icebergs began to crackle
as they had never done before.
Glacier-tops released their misty sighs of pleasure.
The World began its rebirth.
But wait …
What was that movement?
Did that body really stir?
Were there still living cells within him?
Would he rise again?
Reject all laws?
Be a non-conformist in Death as he was in Life?
“Preposterous!”, cried the Angel
in charge of Death & Laughter.
She came down to see him closely for herself.
“Nothing revolutionary to fear”,
read her report.
“Just a few hardy maggots”.
(Published in The News - June 18, 1993)