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Death; 'tis the myst'ry of all human kind.
From its cold embrace there is no return,
In its coming we aren't to speak our mind.
What's on the other side we've yet to learn,
Once we've been buried deep in the dark earth
What will entertain us all those long years?
Will all those centuries be ones of mirth?
Or filled with bloody torture and pained tears?
I do fear that I might soon discover
What those e'er eternal eons will yield.
Methinks that it shall be something other
Than the grotesque colour of blood congealed.
But I write these lines with a shaking hand,
Death's to take me to that heav'nly dreamland