'How you die, ' black Death states,
'does not determine what awaits.'
I return in a weary breath,
'I will not be one to fear distress!
My death shall pardon my last few sins.
My death shall determine if I lose or I win.'
'But why granted child, ' Death questions, displeased.
'Would you not prefer a quick death with little but ease?
The pain is scarce, the knowledge is dim.
And my promising soul, It isn't so much as grim.'
The fire burns within, the pleading of this dark fool.
But by the power of God my heart quickly cools.
Not to icy stone that shatters the core
But the strongest of powers, that one must adore.
'Repent says the Lord, at death bed I shall repent.
If I die a dear martyr with the death I've been sent.
Or die an unworthy hero with the souls I have saved.
Then indeed you yourself would be not so grave.'
With this death disperses and God shines in glory.
It is then that I'm pleased there is more to this story.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.