Know that,
in afterlife,
it is not a crime to be born
out of time,
waiting for
the end of an era
that never came—
soon enough for you.  

Are you seeing the immortal roots of the trees
you’ve planted springs ago,
in the garden that has outlived you?
Because I hear you in
the leaves’ rustling whispers:

All life returns to the ground,
but this is how you inherit the earth.

(To fools without fear)

So I implore you,

To sit at Death's table,
and eat his fears;

To dine with fine wine,
and season the spine of darkness with pain;

To be drunk on hope,
in crystal glasses made of tears;

To be high on communion,
and poison Chaos' reign;

To look into his eyes,
so blank, so bleak, so black,

and laugh.

Make him tremble.
Make him proud to take us.