by Nick Gisburne
When even Death is weary at the end,
Surrendering to pity and regret,
He wonders if his fingertips could mend
The path on which his future will be met.
To steal so many children was a crime,
Abducted from a dream they never built.
The pure, the blameless, cut before their time,
A sickening reminder of his guilt.
He whispers, on the road of no return,
The names of every daughter, every son,
Of each immortal soul who did not earn
A date with Death, before their time was done.
When even he has no more death to give,
He travels to the world of light, to live.
