The Taste of Death

Shall my death taste bitter upon my leaving, the dish of my life seasoned by disgust and resentment?
Shall the offer I lay on the altar be rottened and spoiled by poison accumulated throughout my lifetime?
Shall my Death taste like the ground when I fall from the tall illusions and vanity I climbed on, and the taste of the blood from a crushed body haunt me for long?
Shall it taste like all the hungry anxious bites I took out of life, undigested, unprocessed, fermenting like a long headache, hurting like an uncured ulcer?

Or shall it taste sweet and light, and trully replenishing to my Soul

Should I not want to taste it

If it was delicious as all the Love I helped bring to this Earth
If it was consistent as all the peace I felt
and if I felt like forever and if I felt like eternity

would I not wanto to calmly savor it

Why should I not pick the flower, if it only smells good briefly
Why should I want Forever to be where it does not belong

I´d rather have my life as a dish made for an unforgetable feast
That I prepared while drinking wine with my friends
And they helped me season it with all the bitter sweetness, and the salt of the earth, and the sweat of our brows, and the smell of our loving, and the laughter of our children, and the passing of seasons, and the wisdom of age, and the lightness of air, and all else that can be fitted to give it exquisite texture and generous taste.

And we shall feel like gods when we sit down to savor it. And God Himself might say “Not bad! Would you give the the recipe?”

Antonio Kós