Tis a night of darkness,
mist clouds the valleys below.
Spirits vent their outrage,
to death’s demand. 

Life had no regrets,
nor needs for revenge,
yet the people cry out in fret,
that death would show sympathy for their friends.

Still death has none,
for he does his job
as it is his sway.

Every soul will bow to his demands,
like before.
For none is beyond his grave,
nor the gazing of his sway.
Death always gets his way.