Death Is a Woman

Who is that old woman, The one who's sitting on that bench? She looks at everyone who passes As if her heart would wrench. Tell me why she looks so sad, Is she a friend of yours? She leans upon her ancient cane As if to hide her many years. Who is that little woman? Whose wizen eyes turn to the skies. She somehow looks familiar, Sitting there repressing cries. The little woman rises and Turns to look at me. "Its time," she says, "I’ve come to set you free.”