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- Джек Лондон
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I
'll
see
them
next
,
and
last
time
,
from
the
scaffold
,
ere
the
hangman
hides
my
face
in
the
black
cap
.
They
will
be
looking
curiously
sick
.
Queer
young
fellows
.
Some
show
that
they
have
been
drinking
.
Two
or
three
look
sick
with
foreknowledge
of
what
they
have
to
witness
.
It
seems
easier
to
be
hanged
than
to
look
on
...
.
*
*
*
*
*
My
last
lines
.
It
seems
I
am
delaying
the
procession
.
My
cell
is
quite
crowded
with
officials
and
dignitaries
.
They
are
all
nervous
.
They
want
it
over
.
Without
a
doubt
,
some
of
them
have
dinner
engagements
.
I
am
really
offending
them
by
writing
these
few
words
.
The
priest
has
again
preferred
his
request
to
be
with
me
to
the
end
.
The
poor
man
--
why
should
I
deny
him
that
solace
?
I
have
consented
,
and
he
now
appears
quite
cheerful
.
Such
small
things
make
some
men
happy
!
I
could
stop
and
laugh
for
a
hearty
five
minutes
,
if
they
were
not
in
such
a
hurry
.
Here
I
close
.
I
can
only
repeat
myself
.
There
is
no
death
.
Life
is
spirit
,
and
spirit
can
not
die
.
Only
the
flesh
dies
and
passes
,
ever
a-crawl
with
the
chemic
ferment
that
informs
it
,
ever
plastic
,
ever
crystallizing
,
only
to
melt
into
the
flux
and
to
crystallize
into
fresh
and
diverse
forms
that
are
ephemeral
and
that
melt
back
into
the
flux
.
Spirit
alone
endures
and
continues
to
build
upon
itself
through
successive
and
endless
incarnations
as
it
works
upward
toward
the
light
.
What
shall
I
be
when
I
live
again
?
I
wonder
.
I
wonder
...
.