Along comes my hearse,
marked with contempt.
Silently about,
its rotting descent.
Fickle the flame,
as chill it brings.
Tired and weary,
as the raven sings.
My time has come,
and bitter is the taste.
My time it seems,
is met with haste.
So carry me softly,
with your gentle sway.
Back to the womb,
in the earth I lay.
Grieve me not,
I have no remorse for I have arrived....