Men fear what they do not understand…of darkness and creatures, of death and angels…they write stories, fascinate themselves with their fear and mull it over. Death is not the end…it is the continuation of our journey…
So I sing to the horseman, the carrier on his wings of travelling souls: Death…

Night shies not from the pale moon’s glow,

Seen through her aged and sleepy eyes.

She keeps the silence in a glass,

to hear the song that darkness sings.


The blinking lights, no feelings show,

The night wind changes not his guise.

The rain that whispers on the grass,

The darkness to her, comfort brings.


The darkness sings of things she knows,

yet now can hardly recognise.

Of sweetest lovers in her past,

or of the more meaningless things.


Her life, it seems, had not been slow,

She sees the face of death and cries.

See, as this woman came to pass,

For her the bells of heaven ring…

Sing my name,