If death come to court me
And I go on with him.
Remember not my face.
Think only of my words.
The ink I have laid nearly
In line some with out reason.
Some with rhyme.
but if Death comes to court you
and you go with Her
your face have no meaning
your voice never to be heard
the papyrus blowing in the wind
the ink drying out
awaiting your return
the sun rising
slowly
