I am dead.
Totally dead.
Very dead.
Extremely dead.
Dead
The deathless is alive in me.
Nonetheless, I am dead.
Absolutely dead.
Finished
They call me God, but I am dead.
Pure death.
The moon rises and I am dead.
The river is passing and I am dead.
I can hear life in the distance, but I am dead.
My body is burning on the funeral pyre, because I am dead.
I keep dying for the love of death.
Namaste, I am dead.
I used to call it Nirvana, extinction, cessation, but now I just call it death.
In contrast, I notice I am alive.
How perfectly paradoxical.
Such a perfect foundation of death amid such a perfect flowering of life.
The garden is alive.
The mountains are alive.
The river seems alive.
My body seems alive.
The children are alive.
The holy men are alive.
The moon is alive.
The music is alive.
Life and death.
Death and life.
Poetically balanced.
Politely paradoxical.
Hari Om Tat Sat