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“By the calm cold chill so silent like winter So quick and abrupt like the pinch of a splinter A hand drew near to my corpse as I live No soul to be stolen no feelings to give My riches have spent all the will to go on And all melody has left is but the end of a song What more can I give to the doom of the dead No sip of cold water or a splinter of bread No battle wound bleeding to sponge back to health No pockets still willing to feed off of wealth No promise of heaven to the ones who have died No lips to secure to show who has lied My silver has tarnished to a pitiful rust My blanket has withered to a state of no trust What is becoming of me and my will No joy to have cherished or dreams to fulfill Just a bucket of tears that I weep still inside And a plot still dug in case I have died By the calm cold chill as lovely as snow I give in to the hand that bids me to go”