When life is almost over,
Like a candle burning low,
An oil lamp running empty,
Or a river that has lost its flow.
There is one thing remaining,
One final act is left,
Preventing us from seeking,
The welcome arms of death.
Before we seek eternal slumber,
Drift off into the ether,
Information, dissemination,
Lost in the boundless forever.
We must pray and kneel,
To the guardian of our souls,
To Arkay Lord of Seasons,
The Keeper of the Wheel.
Anchored to this coil of strife,
A monotony of endless night,
Arkay is our guide,
When we exhale the last of life.
"Arkay receive this soul,
We have performed the final rite,
Have read from the sacred scroll,
Please help this spirit take flight"
Comments
As great as always.
Fawn I appreciate your kindness, thank you Sometimes I can pluck a poem from the air immediately and it is there, almost fully formed in my head. But it needs magicka/inspiratio... more