Death's soft embrace is
purely inevitable-
yet comforts us all.

With quiet grace and
more than endless compassion-
You will bring us home.

Winter's misty breath
coalesces from Thy mouth-
yet there is no cold.

Autumn claims each one
aging even the most strong-
as we live each day.

Are You good or evil
the answer is clear, my Lord-
for You take us home.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Ero, in the year 382 AF.