Wrest but the life this wretched soul
when once the die is cast to see.
As drummers drum and death bells toll
till ragged breath spills forth from me.

Take from the palm of withered flesh
the crumb and gruel fit not to eat.
For on the ground, the cold wet earth
a poor wretch stands on barren feet.

Old shredded rags from shoulders stooped
keep not the chilling night away.
And shivers shake blue quivered lips
until the dawn returns the day.

A shadow mocks one’s destiny
where death becomes struggles quest.
As mud now binds the wrinkled toes
in need of but a stolen rest.

For in this cell and scornful place
the bones of death do herein lie.
Where buzzards soar till once the feast
is dined by them with coal black eye.