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Death stood by the road side and swung his hand to get a ride Many stopped by, but was never favored And some came, but he never entered When the road sirened my coming, he rushed and placed a checkpoint at the middle; my body became the car he rushed to enter at last And eyes, his whistle for a clearer sight He then control the steering of my body Straight to his packing log: the grave... Like an owl waiting for the night, am here wishing for the sound of the trumpet. Poet: ©Cheto