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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”
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