Fortuitous Poem by I.B. Singer

….
No doubt the world is entirely an imaginary world,
But it’s only once removed from the true world.

At the door of the hovel where I lie,
There stands the plank on which the dead are taken away.
The gravedigger Jew has his spade ready,
The grave waits and worms are hungry;
The shrouds are prepared—I carry them in my begger’s sack.
Another shnorrer is waiting to inherit my bed of straw.

When the time comes
I will go joyfully.
Whatever may be there,
It will be real,
Without complication,
Without ridicule,
Without deception.

God be praised…