Bitter is the blade set in wood,
clutched by fleshless bone,
claims the souls for sin unatoned.
Pale is the horse that draws nigh,
and paler still that one of four,
who slays without rancour.
Beholden to no one,
all life beholden to him,
none can stay the hand of the reaper grim.
Clothed in night, wreathed in shadow,
spares neither wife nor widow,
there he grins, man's eternal foe.
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