We will all die

We will all die,
everyone that we have looked at,
facing or sideways,
touched or conversed with or forgotten.
We will die one by one,
frankly,
of this great impossible that is death.
The black colour of my dog will die too,
the white colour of your voice,
the hollow colour of this day.
And meanwhile
we will do one thing or another,
no longer so frankly,
but what difference will it make what we do?
Maybe it would be all the same
if my dog were white,
if my voice were black,
or if this day dyed us god-colour.
Or maybe it would not be the same,
and there the question has scarcely begun.