Of Death

When the smells of the body and the earth make stench,

When the sounds of blood gushing and wind blowing create noise,

When the king enjoys his silken bed but the beggar has none,

Death, You arrive.

Riding on the horse of Grief.

And with a whip of sudden pain, 

Separate the soul from its cage.

Some call it the cage of life.

You are selective of whom you take.

You work in your own crazy paradigms of functioning;

Your whims decide how you take them.

The person sees black or blue or white or nothing at all.

And you come to them.

They come to you.

You perfectly complement Birth,

You bring pauses where needed.

And the smells of the body and the earth turn one,

And the sounds of blood gushing and wind blowing mix,

And the king enjoys his bed now, and so does the beggar.