So, it’s now that we say goodbye.
Shush, don’t say anything, leave but a sigh.
Maybe we will never meet again,
My friend.
But, we don’t know when is our time.

And I, with my fingers cut by paper,
Read the letter and wet it with my tears.
They drop to splash, as they confirm my fears:
That I am the one who will go later
Than you. With death now always near,
I live my remaining, finite years.

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