A little poem of Death

Late at night or deep at morning
theres hidden joy or clearest mourning -
through the darkness sings the nightingale.

And somewhere someone's lifeline is ending.

How would it be: just to watch death walk slowly
through the chambers of life and clarity.
To see her hold the hems of her white dress
as she is dancing, while the world is sleeping
into eternity.

She holds her scythe close and calls her ravens:
those are the darkest birds of immortal realms.
She sends them to watch over the mice and men,
of ghosts, of living and of dreams.

What a wonder it will be to meet her one day
when the shadows loom darker than the sunlight.
To take a look at her face: one of an eternal maiden.
To witness her beauty and her doom
when life is over/when starts the night.