Do you hear the angel coming, drawing ever near?
Driving mortal men before him, filled with constant fear?

Can you hear his footsteps, quiet on the earth?
Or perhaps you hear the flutter of wings which still all sounds of mirth.

Do you hear his whispered voice, a gentle, raspy wheeze,
Or do you feel his cold, slow breath slipping through the breeze?

And though I ask it matters not what you hear or do,
Because you know that in the end, death will come for you.