The Equality of Death

no crown endures, no throne remains, Death levels all, in silent chains. Immortal dreams, mortal frail, In shadow's grasp, all faces pale. A king may rule with gilded might, Yet he, too, fades in endless night. A beggar’s plea, a child’s cry, All echo faint when time runs dry. The sky looks down, impartial, cold, On fleeting power, on treasures sold. Why bow to pride, why grasp at gold, When dust reclaims both young and old? Each name inscribed, each title claimed, Will vanish soon, like candles tamed. The strong oppress, the weak retreat, Yet all are ash beneath time’s feet. Death whispers soft, a song so clear, A final truth all hearts must hear: No difference marks the high or low In death, all paths to silence go. Yet in this truth, a freedom gleams, For life’s no more than borrowed dreams. And while we walk this fragile span, We’re kin, not masters man to man.