Death comes, unapologetic,
Belligerent, unremorseful, No knowledge, nor care about life.
Its only goal is to harvest,
The crops remaining in the field,
Who are running, stumbling, struggling,
Kneeling, dealing, pleading, dying.
Death coldly plays it to the end.
Death comes, uncaring about hope,
Selfishly plain; you live to die.
Do not talk to Death of intent
It has no interest in your dreams.
It cares only of your last fears,
That you tremble in its presence;
Knowing your hopes and dreams are gone,
That Death will coldly conquer life.
Death comes, belonging to no one,
Singularly detached, alone.
It deals in neither love nor hate,
And cares not about family,
Not of husband, father, brother,
Not of wife, mother, nor sister,
Families are but shocks in the field.
Death coldly reaps the family.
Death comes, as the eternal jester,
Willfully ignorant of life
And the omnipotent nature,
Of souls, present and eternal.
Death reaps blindly in the field
Playing its part without knowing
The soul has escaped its harvest,
And that only the soul is life.