There is no season, no mourning, that you are absent, You, who's breath freezes fragile flower shoots, who's vacant eye sockets reflect the wrath of humanity with its flames, You, with raiment of dust and foreboding, You, a frightener of even the wan wraiths who haunt life's light, as the world's dearth fills the nations with the pain of hopelessness, Dare not, Death, glide silently in your dark wretchedness with your wantoness, and pluck the youngest lives not yet born, from the warmth of womb, whose testimony is not yet spoken. The very angels' song lamentations, it stirs you not, empathic cries, can they stave off your gloom? as you ride on your pallid green steed as boney as you, you swiftly swath your bloodied silver scythe through humankind's warring, the invitation to coldly reap from all the ills we ourselves have sown, would be far, far fewer, if the very life pulse of charity, of mercy, and the permission of God's goodness into ourselves were commonplace, then, you'd dare not, Death, come as often smiting as you do. ~