Death comes, quite unexpected,
in bloom of youth or in our prime;
like a thief, quite, unsuspected,
before maturity, before our time.

It takes away the budding rose,
kills the blossoms of the spring;
when it comes, no one knows,
or what results it brings.

Death comes to all, no one escapes,
both the wicked and the good;
both the sweet and sour grapes,
we can't change it - wish we could.

All the laughter and the tears,
are buried in the silence;
gone the beauty of the years,
in death, serene or violent.

Death is never greeted well,
it's the end of all that's known;
only memory in time, will tell,
how high it is, we've flown.