My hands they shake and, too, their tips are dark;
afoot is Winter and she’s stomping out
the color of the leaves upon the ground
and spitting death directly in my mouth.
I know I’ll die one day, so why not now?
If Winter has the strength than I am hers
and she can do whatever she may please,
but do not let her decorate my hearse.
Allow my life a quick and painless end;
the bullet coming shan’t see both my eyes,
it may not shake my hand or know my name,
it cannot know if my first prayers are lies.
I never knelt below a mighty hand,
so as I part from you, please understand.


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