It's cold and growing dark. Death would
Call this time its own with snow still
Clinging to the branches, icebergs
Clotted on the river, footprints
Of the desperate creatures searching
Everywhere for food. I have my own
Complaints, of course, a cough,
A runny nose, decrepit wrists,
And chilly toes and fingers. Nonetheless,
I plan to live, but who am I to rustle
Pompons, shouting that you ought to,
Too; you, whose body's gravely broken,
Wracked with pain, and, further, burdened
By the urge to wound yourself? It's fair
To say that my decision doesn't matter.
I'd prefer to see you live, but that decision

Must be yours alone.