tomorrow I’ll be dead and dancing
my eyes closed in relief and in anger
my courage waiting for me like a deadskin
just about to be eaten
to ferment and to be born anew
to transform itself
and sunbath again

tomorrow I’ll be dead and dancing
my hands cold like a silly wintery morning
waiting anxiously for the first beautiful girl
to wake up from her temporary death and
to play with her
to have the cold wrapped around her finger
by just smiling like a child remembering the caresses
of his mother.
and then to send a letter to someone she loves
and make the silly wintery morning reinvent itself
as a love-bearing summer day

tomorrow I’ll be dead and dancing
with the last breath lurking through my lungs
like the specter of my dead parents trying to embrace me
from beyond
the last, useless breath crying in me like a dead-born cub
not managing to stay in and not really getting out

the death of me shining like a silvery pillow
reverberating through my body for a split second
and than fading away as if nothing ever existed
least of all I.