a distant northern land

White lilies pressed against the nudity of my bosom. I offer white lilies to what hurts me in you. For we are beings who lack. This because certain things—if they are not given—wilt. For example,the lilies’ petals would burn against the warmth of my body. I call the light breeze for my future death. I will have to die, otherwise my petals will burn. This is why I give myself up to death every day. I die and I am born again. Moreover, I have already died from the death of others. But now I am dying from drunkenness of life. And I bless the warmth of the living body that wilts white lilies.

If death delivers us from the world, whether into paradise or hell, oblivion or having-been, birth introduces us to a world that is not of our making and to a past that we have the impossible task of making our own.