Sonnet CCLX

I cannot die to live, but always live to die:
my life is spinning out to death from just a thread,
attached to my beginning, birth beyond my head.
I’m like the paradox of day, which also dies,
despite its burst of lustre, bright Aurora’s red,
and in the end it cedes to night, unto its death
of sleep, unknowing, to another shining life.

But do I know for sure what sequel lies beyond?
Shall death’s old moon prevail or shall the sun stay round?

Perhaps the day does not just die to deathly night,
for from the morning, life turns to a brighter death –
the Noon – which grows with larger brilliance of breath,
reanimated from my corpse, the umbra’s light.