No, there is no death.
Not even this rock is dead,
Not even the fruit that falls is dead :
My finger’s embrace gives life to them,
they breathe to the cadence of my blood,
and the breath that touches them.
So one day, when this hand grows dry,
in memory it will linger in another hand,
and the mouth will quietly keep
the taste of the mouths it kissed.
[ José Saramago, "Declaração", Os poemas possíveis, 1966 ]
