I clench at the bottle within my bony grasp,
And as drunken fumes enrage my mind I gasp
As before me the Angel of Death stands fast.
What right has it, to stand as such?
Am I not king? A prince of boundless wrath?
‘Away with thee’, and hobble away upon my crutch.
My regal scepter of rags and ash.
With the silence of thieves it creeps upon me.
A shadowy cloak that glides, as if it were free from the heavy world of man.
And all around it dances gaily to mock me,
Showing me what I am.
Yet then I turn and face it,
For I have drunk from the cup of Christ!
And the fire of life courses though me,
As I kneel upon the ice.
Victory flies with me
For I look above and see her wings of feathery light,
As she throws her sword within my sight.
I draw it from its muddy tomb.
Of filth, and rats, and beasts of gloom.
And as I draw it from its rusty sheath,
Creatures of night cry out in grief,
The time has come, and here we duel,
As wet pain stabs upon my back,
We are alike to one another.
Though times may come when anger boils
And I will rise to smother
The raging soul inside you.