By his faint tread like warm breath on cool ground,
I hear his footsteps fade as fast as morning mist.
Alone, I lie in bed, but then, this sound
That would not silence, instead it did persist.
At first did I mistake it for a knock,
Or was the house just creaking in the wind?
For rhythmic as a footfall or a clock,
Its measure was precise and disciplined.
It was Death that stalked me in the dark.
In frozen fear, I await Its cold embrace.
With mortal aim it chose me as its mark.
Gasping my breath leaves without a trace.
And so I speak from deep within my tomb,
Cries annually come springs brightening bloom.