If I’m Lucky
If I’m lucky, I’ll be tied down from every side
on a hospital bed. Tubes will be inserted
into my nose. But try not to be afraid of me, friends!
I’m telling you right now—this is all right.
After all, I’m not asking that much from you.
Someone, I hope, will call all of you
and say: “Come quickly, he’s passing away!”
And you’ll all come. I’ll have enough time
to say goodbye to everyone I love.
If I’m lucky, they’ll come close
and I’ll be able to see them one last time
and take that memory with me.
Surely, they’ll look at me and want to run away
and scream. But because they love me,
they’ll lift my hand and say: “Be brave,”
or “Everything will be okay.”
And they’ll be right. Everything is okay.
It really is. If only you knew how happy you’ve made me!
I hope fate won’t abandon me, and I’ll be able to
give some sign of recognition.
To open and close my eyes as if to say:
“I love you too. Be happy.”
I truly hope for that! But I don’t want to ask for too much.
And if I’m not lucky, just as I probably deserve, then fine—
I’ll slip away, just like that, with no chance
to say goodbye or to shake anyone’s hand.
Or to tell you how much I’ve cared for you
and enjoyed your company all these years.
Still—
try not to mourn me too much. I want you to know
that I was happy while I was with you.
And remember, I told you this some time ago—in April 1984.
But be happy if I die in the presence
of friends and family. If that happens, believe me,
I made it. This time, I didn’t lose.
