Death is such a peculiar thing,
From what I’ve heard and what I’ve seen.
Comes quite opposite the famous proverb,
The calm both before and after the storm.
I’d seen him just yesterday,
Yet before my eyes, he motionless did lay.
Quite peaceful, like he was but sleeping,
And we, rather the idiots, were weeping.

Chilling most, was his serene face,
Pale and as though he was sound asleep.
Like he would get up any moment,
Wide-eyed, confused and awake.
I say, such a peculiar thing death is!
I’d seen him only yesterday,
Very much alive and,
Not quite like this.

Did he know? Did know then?
That it would be his last sun?
His last night? His last day?
The last time he ever felt the rain?
I’d seen him only yesterday, and promised him today,
Oh, what a cruel game of fates you are, oh, Death.

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