Although one's body often slumbers deep,
Inside, one's spirit always is awake.
For souls possess no real means to sleep
Nor, for an hour, life's illusion break.

There is but one relief for souls to take
And this escape no momentary dream:
The final trek each mortal has to make
Which culminates in no immortal gleam.

Yet Death is not a god, as fictions deem;
It's nothing but destruction of the self.
No matter how eternal we may seem,
Existence only lasts as long as health!

For Death possesses no great mystery
But this: an end to human history.