They walk around it – taking care 
Not to step on it.
They speak of the illness, the discomfort
The sleepless nights and the lengthening days
They see the wall ahead, dark and sinister
They know what it signifies-
Each step getting them closer-
Nonetheless pretend it does not exist.
They talk of the coffee, the dinner,
And the journey someone has to undertake
the next morning
Secretly wondering each second,
Will the next morning arrive at all?
Will there be a sunrise, a sunset?
When can there be another walk 
on the grass, barefoot ?
How many more rains, and sunshine,
How many more full moons?
How much more time to enjoy the flowers ?
How much longer, this precious life?
Talking of it is taboo.
They tip-toe around it, taking care 
Not to disturb it.
They see it, and close their eyes
They turn away lest it feels itself invited
They say not its name, for fear of tempting it.
It bides its time, 
mocking them,
stalking them,
scaring them…
It matters not what they do,
What they say, or not,
What they pretend,
…It’ll get them in the end.