Come tomorrow, I will die. Shadow in comparison to real form, Immersed in water, will my eyes be open In search of a sign in the sky? Or will they betray this fantasy and be shut like an actor in the clutches of a scene? Will I taste the water, or will some go down my nostrils? Will this fake death have me prisoner for a few seconds, and will calm flee and flesh seek Premature resurrection? Perhaps I’ll find the water warm and welcoming Or perharps cold and indifferent To a sinner like many others In need of a second chance. Willing participant of this simple yet complex act. Unfazed by its publicty Or skilled at hiding it well. Will there be a mischievous stone at the riverbank? That would cause me to stumble And temporarily wish to make the river my grave? Or will my short walk be smooth like a river creature returning home? In those seconds immersed in flowing water, will I feel the transition to this new life? Will the sky be clear or randomly dotted by birds? Oh, for a sign to make a good story! Pulled out from water, Will I greedily gasp for air? Or feign calm, like oxygen I hadn’t missed. Will I shiver beneath dark clouds? Or bask in the warmth of the glorious sun? Will I stand in wait for the others? Or be permitted to put on warm clothing— First domestic act of this new life? And afterwards? How changed will I be? Set in default? Will new mistakes replace old ones? Will I ask these many question then or will I just know? Plup,plup,plup! Water. Water drops from the kitchen tap— My only companion in this web of boredom, I take it as the tick,tick,tick, of my faulty clock, Countdown to tomorrow, Host to my death and resurrection.