On the boarder of death
there is more like lack of oxygen:
dogs are panting, ceaseingly.

It is time to transform,
turning into skin of a frozen insect.

And to realize,
lonely in the room of darkness,
that skin will change.

The body blushes in the inavoidable light
and lastly sucking up
in an eye of eternity.

Like a clear look, hidden
without hardly seeing
how the big process going on.

That room,
like a trembleing string
on the lute of Universe.

Hans-Evert Renérius