#173

If tomorrow, I will die,
I wouldn't want to be drunk
tonight.
I wouldn't want to unfeel every moment
of me being alive.

I would be more lucid of the most trivial things.
I would dance to the music not many can easily hear.
I would rather be called mad, a fool,
be laughed at—
their mockery meaning nothing to me,
who is liberated.

Everything I do would be genuine.

But of course,
I would be sad too—
I would be afraid too—
but that would be only at the very, very last moment.
It would remain invisible throughout.

The sunset this evening would truly be an extended
golden hour.
The dusk would come late, and so would my eyes.

I would bask in all of it.

My smile would be a paradox,
but it would definitely be genuine—
true, pure, no longer human.

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