In a world of dying
Meant to hide its meaning,

There are no highs,  no heroes,
No sweets, baby, only woes--

Sufferings  you gently leave at once.
Death comes to you only by chance,

Never till  you feel complete and ready
      to go,
The Killing Angel stands sleepless and
      on the go;

High and twice  above the clouds by
      measure
Is his knee, collecting souls at pleasure;

Throwing this to speeding cars,
And that to stupid wars,

And, whatever the reason he gives,
He nonetheless just takes.

No use! all love is but a preparation
For something there's  got to be for a
       notion,

Yet you and I must be content with the
        end
Of Love as 'streaming eyes' and with
       nothing to amend!
                   -by Hakim Kassim.
                   (d. September 10,  2016)