Death Poem by Artchil Daug

We believe it a dream this fate called death
a whisper in the fog of uncertainty
this murd'rous devil for our soul it cometh
reaping corns in fields of avidity;

Grow not wings that fly us from our visions
of lights cascading, rewards approaching
or chains of fire, dire admonitions
trapped between the old scripture's engraving;

Look at thy body and this world afresh
the pain and sorrow that thy mind possess
doubt not thy life and that torn in the flesh
rest easy bearing the words I profess:

The phantoms of this world in dreams persist
know that when thine eyes closed they don't exist.