Euthanasia

Yet again, alas, it is à propos to post Elizabeth Jennings' poem.

Euthanasia:

The law's been passed and I am lying low 

Hoping to hide from those who think they are 

Kindly, compassionate. My step is slow. 

I hurry. Will the executioner 

Be watching how I go? 

Others about me clearly feel the same. 

The deafest one pretends that she can hear. 

The blindest hides her white stick while the lame 

Attempt to stride. Life has become so dear. 

Last time the doctor came, 

All who could speak said they felt very well. 

Did we imagine he was watching with 

A new deep scrutiny? We could not tell. 

Each minute now we think the stranger Death 

Will take us from each cell 

For that is what our little rooms now seem 

To be. We are prepared to bear much pain, 

Terror attacks us wakeful, every dream 

Is now a nightmare. Doctor's due again.

We hold on to the gleam 

Of sight, a word to hear. We act, we act, 

And doing so we wear our weak selves out. 

We said, "We want to die" once when we lacked 

The chance of it. We wait in fear and doubt. 

O life, you are so packed 

With possibility. Old age seems good. 

The ache, the anguish - we could bear them we 

Declare. The ones who pray plead with their God 

To turn the murdering ministers away, 

But they come softly shod.

Elizabeth Jennings