What not to believe when speaking to Death through the airwaves.

Ah, who are you

who comes creeping up behind me in the dark,

sending your tiny fists against my back? Who sent you?

Who called for you? Leave this place—I have work to do,

and I work alone. Step back!

What I have in my hands doesn't concern you.

What do you care for its cries? I'm leaving you

in its favor. Don't try to look—

I promise you, you won't like what you see. This thing

is too broken; see the blood staining my fingers? No,

it wasn't my doing—I found it like this, I promise you.

I'm only trying to help.

Keep your mouth shut!

Nothing you can say will help it. Only I can do this.

Do not reason with me. I cannot be swayed.

So what if this beautiful thing twined between my fingers

is a soul?

Do not call for it. Do not reach for it.

Above all, do not love it in its suffering,

for it will not—it cannot—

love you in return.

Now, I really must be going,

I have a soul to—what!

Tell me, did you see where it went?

And what is that beautiful glow in your hands,

flowing up your arms

to touch your heart?