Death, Thou Art Humble
Death, thou art so humble!
So much poetry and music
Has been written in thy name:
Thou hast been accused of not existing,
Yet thou hastens not. Nor dost thou linger,
But instead wait'st for the accuser to become
Part of thee. How sick and yet
Noble of thee to offer us thy
Grace in such a manner!
And in the course of the matter,
Thou art comparable to Time:
Thou art infinite,
Thou art invested as our greatest interest throughout our lives,
And thou cannot be proven.
Thy name has been tarnished by that of war,
Thy character mistook often for that of the Reaper.
Yet thou art too sophisticated for war, and the Reaper
Exists not, whereas thou dost indeed.
Death, thou art too kind and humble. Thy blood
Is like maple syrup and thou wear'st the
Finest cloaks. Yet human beings
Have sliced thee and drank thee. They have
Spat upon thy attire, forcing thee to wear
The darkest garments, and forcing thy cheeks
To become faded, drained, and pale.
Yet thou hastens not. Nor dost thou linger...
Instead thou wait'st. Like thou hast always done.
Thou needs not approach any of us.
For in the end, those who have spat on thee
Will kneel at thy feet.
For thou art humble.
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