Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and

Host: The night was velvet and infinite, the kind of darkness that held depth, not emptiness. The sea stretched out beyond the cliff, breathing slow and heavy like a sleeping god. A lighthouse pulsed in the distance — a lonely, rhythmic heartbeat of light, cutting through the fog like a whisper that refused to die.

Jack and Jeeny stood on the edge of the world, or at least it felt that way. The wind clawed at their coats. Beneath them, the waves crashed against the rocks with ancient fury. A single lantern burned beside them, its flame trembling in the cold.

Jeeny held an old, leather-bound book — its pages worn, its words eternal. She read aloud, her voice carried by the sea breeze:

Jeeny: “Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so. For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.”

She lowered the book, her eyes glimmering like the horizon before dawn. “John Donne wrote that four centuries ago, and still... it feels like a rebellion whispered straight into the face of eternity.”

Jack: “Or a delusion shouted into the void.”

Host: His voice was low, his words carried the gravel of disbelief — or perhaps of someone who had once believed too much. He lit a cigarette, the flame momentarily painting his face in amber light before surrendering to the dark.

Jack: “No one conquers death, Jeeny. We just dress it in poetry so it looks less terrifying.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong.”

Jack: “Am I?”

Jeeny: “Donne wasn’t trying to conquer death. He was unmasking it.”

Host: The wind shifted — colder now, as though listening. The sea below them seemed to growl.

Jeeny: “He looked at the thing everyone fears, and instead of trembling, he called it a fraud. He said, ‘You think you have power? You don’t. You’re a passage, not an ending.’ That’s not delusion, Jack. That’s defiance.”

Jack: “Defiance is beautiful — until the body fails. Then it’s just noise against silence.”

Jeeny: “And yet we keep making noise, don’t we?”

Host: Jack turned toward her. His eyes, grey and storm-bound, caught hers. For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Only the ocean spoke — its endless dialogue with the shore.

Jack: “You really think there’s something after this? Some version of us that doesn’t end?”

Jeeny: “I think there’s something bigger than endings. I don’t know what to call it. Maybe it’s soul, maybe it’s energy, maybe it’s memory. But whatever it is, it doesn’t stop. Death just changes the shape.”

Jack: “You make it sound romantic. But look at history — plague, war, famine. Millions gone, forgotten. No transformation. Just... gone.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Not forgotten. Every breath we take carries the air they breathed. Every word we speak carries echoes of theirs. You think memory dies with flesh? It travels. It mutates. It survives.”

Host: The lantern flame fluttered violently, as if caught between faith and wind. Jeeny reached out, steadying it with her hand. The light wavered but did not go out.

Jeeny: “You see that?” she whispered. “That’s what Donne meant. Death can shake us, but it can’t extinguish us.”

Jack: “You’re quoting metaphors to fight biology.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m quoting courage to fight despair.”

Host: Jack exhaled smoke into the dark, the grey tendrils dissolving into the air like ghosts that didn’t know where to go. He watched them disappear, then spoke quietly:

Jack: “When my brother died, I tried to tell myself something like that. That he was still around — in the wind, in the stars, in the things he loved. But it always felt like pretending.”

Jeeny: “It’s not pretending. It’s remembering.”

Jack: “There’s a difference?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Pretending denies the loss. Remembering redeems it.”

Host: The waves below rose higher now, crashing harder against the cliffside — an orchestra of force. The moonlight carved silver lines through the foam.

Jeeny: “When Donne said, ‘Death, thou shalt die,’ he wasn’t claiming immortality for himself. He was claiming it for love. For consciousness. For everything that refuses to vanish quietly.”

Jack: “But death wins eventually. Even stars die, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but they die into light.”

Host: Her words lingered — shimmering, soft, dangerous. The silence that followed wasn’t emptiness; it was reverence.

Jack dropped his cigarette, watching the ember fall into the dark abyss below. “You know,” he said, “there’s something arrogant about it — telling death it’s powerless. Maybe that’s just humanity’s way of comforting itself.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But arrogance is just another form of hope. We keep talking to death as if it listens — maybe it does. Maybe that’s what eternity is: the echo that keeps answering.”

Host: The wind eased, the air settling into a strange, sacred stillness. The sea calmed, its fury softening into rhythm. The world seemed to lean closer, waiting.

Jack: “What if Donne was wrong? What if death isn’t a door — it’s just a wall?”

Jeeny: “Then beauty is the hammer we keep swinging at it.”

Jack: “And what if the wall never breaks?”

Jeeny: “Then at least we die facing it, not running from it.”

Host: Her words were fire, but her tone was peace. Jack looked at her for a long time, the kind of look that only happens when philosophy becomes personal. He didn’t answer immediately. The lantern burned lower.

Finally, he said quietly, “You really don’t fear it, do you?”

Jeeny: “I do. Every day. But fear is proof that life still matters. And that’s how I know death doesn’t win — because even its shadow reminds me I’m still here.”

Host: A faint light broke through the fog — the lighthouse beam sweeping across them again. For an instant, they stood illuminated: two small figures at the edge of infinity, both defiant, both fragile.

Jack: “So maybe Donne wasn’t mocking death. Maybe he was thanking it — for giving life its urgency.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Without death, there’s no art. No tenderness. No reason to say ‘I love you’ before it’s too late.”

Jack: “So death gives life meaning?”

Jeeny: “And life gives death mercy.”

Host: The lantern finally went out. Darkness folded around them — vast, infinite, alive. Yet somehow, the silence didn’t feel empty. It felt full.

Jeeny’s hand brushed Jack’s — briefly, quietly — grounding both of them against the void.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he meant, Jack. Death doesn’t kill us. It only proves that we lived.”

Jack: “And the rest?”

Jeeny: “The rest,” she said, looking out over the dark sea, “is light we can’t see yet.”

Host: The waves whispered below, endless, patient. Above them, the first faint trace of dawn began to bloom at the horizon — thin, golden, unstoppable.

And for that single moment, the darkness didn’t feel like an ending,
but a beginning wrapped in silence —
a promise whispered by the universe itself:

“Die not, poor Death.”

Because even here, at the edge of everything,
life still dares to speak.