Jo Walton (papersky) wrote,

On the impending death of Iain Banks

No, I've got nothing. Only rage and grief
That death exists at all and isn't fair
(Though fair would not be better) and I care,
And how I hate all this, with no relief.

We all go to the dark, and as for me
I deal OK with that: I won't be there.
My bones the earth, my coffin full of hair,
And all my words gone silent: fine. I see.

But when it comes to other deaths than mine:
Just no. No resignation. Tears and rage.
And don't tell me "surcease" and "laid down age"
When Keats was twenty-five, Banks fifty-nine.

Go hug your friends, and sing, or paint, or write,
Now while we may, against impatient night.
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