What if I die? 'Twere
little grief!
But one fear wrings my
breast—
Perhaps Death too, may
play on me
A grim, insulting jest.
I fear that over my
cold corpse
Hot tears may fall in
showers;
That someone, with a
foolish zeal,
May heap my bier with
flowers;
That friends may crowd
behind my hearse
With thoughts of grief
sincere,
And when I lie beneath
the mould,
Men's hearts may hold
me dear;
That all which I so
eagerly
And vainly used to
crave
In life, may brightly
smile on me
When I am in my grave!
N. A. Dobroliubov
(Picture: Untitled, Zdislav Beksinski)
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