Forgive this short post.
Don’t be afraid, my little friend,
for death will always reappear.
His snapping jaws, like iron bars,
imprison everything held dear.
But in this know, death’s not the end,
nor can he touch one hair o’ your head,
say when it’s written in the stars:
Foretold the day we’ll all be dead.
Impunity, until descends
your star from heaven’s lofty height,
have we, and now the time is ours.
So work within your meagre light.
Tale Told 