In the early dawn I felt a touch,
Heard a soft voice whisper “Come”;
A pause and then that voice again:
“Your race you have now run”.
I shook my head, withdrew my hand,
I weakly whispered no.
How can I leave this woman
Sitting quietly by the window?
O Mr Death I cannot come!
Gaze upon this sweet vignette:
Morning’s growing light is
Softly framing her silhouette.
She and I have things to do,
Loving not yet completed,
So now I hear my own voice vow
“I will not by you be defeated.”
When you some other time return
I must indeed merely follow
And so doing say goodbye to this
Quintessence of joy and sorrow.
But now I feel the warmth of her touch
Make your cold grip fall away,
And weakly turning towards the light
I embrace once more the coming day.