My Shroud

I was born dressed in a shroud, and I have been wearing it ever since.
 I will die wearing it.
 It is an astonishing thing to imagine,
 an infant emerging from the womb already clothed.
 Yet nobody present at my birth seemed to
 notice, nor has anyone brought it up since then.
 My shroud is made from a remarkable material.
 The fabric is so finely woven that it is not
 visible to the human eye—not even I can see it.
 But I assure you it's there, draped over my shoulders just as always.
 Over the years my shroud has grown considerably,
 so that I must drag a long sheet of cloth behind me wherever I go.
 Its weight is immense,
 and neither encouraging words nor wine can mitigate the burden.
 Like I said, I will die wearing my shroud.
 What I am just now able to admit is
 that my death will be a result of it.