O Death, sweet sculptor of fragile life,
In thy icy hands, I shall yield,
To thee, the shadow, the inevitable thief,
Who comes to break the chains once sealed.
You are the final melody, a cruel song sung,
By the heart whose strings were worn and torn.
The path we walked, the deeds we’ve done,
All vanish in your embrace, forlorn.
Ah, the flesh, that soft, fragile host,
A vessel once proud, now weary and frail.
The years have stripped it, at what cost?
The chase for riches—oh, how it failed!
What was the pursuit of fleeting desire,
If not a dance of shadows and lies?
In the end, only you remain—forever higher,
The truth beneath the falsity of our skies.
The veins pulse with a frantic beat,
Oh how the body recoils in dread!
The lungs grasp at air—so sweet—
As the end comes near, a fiery thread.
Each breath a battle, each gasp a prayer,
But it slips away like water from hands,
The blood, once warm, turns cold in the air,
And the heart’s thumping no longer stands.
The rush, oh sweet rush, like poison pure,
Coursing through the body, sharp and raw.
I feel it, the soul’s final allure,
As it twists in agony, a forceful law.
The memories flood, sweet and painful,
Tears of joy, of regret, a bitter cry,
For all that was lost in the blind, sinful,
Race towards the horizon where all must die.
The spine curves in impossible arcs,
The limbs betray, as rigor claims the soul,
In this struggle, a dance of sparks,
A writhing death, a perfect hole.
The trachea bursts, a final sound,
A hissing, a whimper, a scream unheard,
As the body fights, but soon is bound,
By death’s cool kiss, its quiet word.
Oh, the peace that follows the storm,
The silence that falls when all is done,
The body still, the mind reborn,
No more the chase, no more the run.
In that moment, when agony fades to none,
And the soul is freed to soar and glide,
A truth is born, by light undone—
Life’s fleeting dance, in death, does hide.
For what is life, but a whispered prayer,
A yearning for that which we cannot hold?
What worth is gold, or fame, or care,
When in death’s arms, we are made bold?
O sweet, sweet death, thy touch is kind,
In thy final breath, peace I find.
