What know thee now of Death, dear child?
For makes he, subjects, of us all;
Bloodthirst, a grin and scythe swung wild;
Low and mighty both, to him, fall.

But is that so? I tell thee not.
For how could eyes, seen all one's life;
All love, all pain, all fire and rot,
Bleed malice t'ward, wish spirit strife?

Life is but tales, Death the reader,
Heart thine with 'ways, wine, ale, tear, bloods;
Joy, grief, love, pain, led or leader;
Soars when you soar, weeps when come floods.

Why end he, then, these stories bright?
Why strike he, then, with icy touch?
'Tis but to lessen others' plight;
He keeps more two for one end such.

There is balance, unseen by all,
Known sole' to Death and his to keep.
For one to rise, one must too fall,
And so some too must come to sleep.

He meets his loves for first time such,
But not with ice, ungloved, to fell.
With frozen lips, a gentle touch;
A greeting and final farewell.

- Gool Goldenheart