Death

He moves in the night,

Astride his pale horse,

The Reaper of all Light,

He who brings remorse.

His scythe rends through the soul,

which is then, by him judged,

To be pure or black as coal,

To heaven or hell, it is then rushed.

He is Death,

The Shade Eternal,

Before him, We're all but rodents,

Watched upon by a sleepless sentinel.