nothing has happened
for days i have been sitting
with the paper in front of me
but nothing happens
i am like a child that
is fed on sorrow
i lift my arm
but can write nothing
i am like a bird that
has forgotten its peers
open my beak
but can sing nothing
it feels so strange
shameless to think
of death when none of those
one knows has died
it means that each time
one looks oneself in the mirror
one looks death in the eye
without crying
as if it was a clear
completely intelligible answer
but to questions
one does not dare ask
a human child
give us room to love
a mortal form
of immortality
like the depths lift the water
up to a source
death lifts the living
up to drink
-Inger Christensen, from “poem about death”