Death is upon us, yet it whisper’s it’s secrets to those we love
Never those we love. Why is death so crazed? Is it consumed by its own destruction
Or does it kill just because it has it’s own pain?
Does death feel its own pain? Can it feel at all?
If it could would it then spar those we love?
But if it felt it would also spar those we hate
See how deaths mind works it gives up all feeling just to kill
Then you think about death, just think and think never eating, sleeping, or breathing.
That is Death’s Plague.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem