Death: Hi, Lu.
Me: Hi, Death. I was sure to meet you. Today. Here.
Death: We met before, Lu. You just don't remember when, and where. How are you?
Me: It was better 400 meters below, where the second roaring stream flows.
Death: I was there, near the spider's web you shoot to, waiting for your choice.
Me: This has been the worst ascent of my life, Death. But you knew this before it started...
Death: I was smiling at your thoughts, when your feet failed. That's not a nice slope...
Me: ...and now I am forced to go back...
Death: At least I'm wearing the face of a sweet mountain pasture.
Me: It's ok but please, keep that fog distant, I'm scared enough already. And nobody could find my body if I fall; it scares me even more.
Death: I know it won't happen. Your inner strength is like those two streams.
Me: Your goal is the gathering of souls, why should I believe in your words of hope?
Death: We met before. Even if we never talked like this.
Me: What if I go ahead, to the next path's beginning? I could reach the refuge safely.
Death: Not so many hikers risk their life like you do. And I'll never say a word to help you. Except a thing: if you go on you'll be called to cross a slippery waterfall; just another kind of risk. Why you told your wife you could not come back? She smiled, didn't know you were seriously thinking to meet me.
Me: To leave her some word of love. No one knows when life ends.
Death: Love, you say. Something sweet and deadly, just like me.
Me: Shut up, Death. I am not a suicide. Shut up.
Death: I could, Lu; but if you're here you have to admit. Love can push you out. And you know what I intend.
Me: Some things are hard to realize. Letters are not a language, without rules, numbers not mathematics.
Death: Don't divagate, poet. You're right into nothingness, alone, with a tough decision to take, and you're talking with Death. Plus, fog is rising. No possibilities, with fog. Do you want to disappear?
Me: Too many, are the things I want. And life seems day by day too short.
Death: Fog is rising.
Me: I am smoking...it could be the last one.
Death: ...haha, avoiding smoke avoids not the end, right?
Me: I'm not in the mood, Death. Shut up.
(clouds roll in, fog rises; smooth fear flows in my veins. I know I could not reach my world again, a thought I don't like)
Me: I have to go back. Carefully placing one step after another.
Death: You'll slip, many times. We could join our hands soon, Lu.
Me: Shut up, Death. And ciao.
I slipped many times as Death said. One time with my left leg floating into the void, the right hand wrapped around a wet nameless helpful plant, the right knee touching the chin. 400 meters of hell, the worst hike of my life. Evidently, alphabet angel(s) won. Or: it was not time to leave this planet.
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