And when the night has come
The eventide dusk having flown
I lay flat, knowing I am transient here
There's pain, ...but not fear...
Except for daughters, wife, and son.

The sickness is whispering, moaning,
Metaphorical, or real, never knowing.
My father's is bubbling over, they've shown...
And psychosomatic as ever, I own
Such guilt, for my lack of atoning.

His voice is not in the thunder
And the purpose of plague is to flounder,
And know in one's heart of the most perfect art,
That causes life's ending along with its start,
And allows for the will to lead where it may;
And to save all creation, but not in a way
That would breed automata, just to rip them asunder.