Death is as inevitable as snow,
Much like windmills on a still day,
Death is the silence of all things.

Death is too late, like snow,
It is never enough, never in time,
Too many tragedies have happened,
And death is too late.

In the distance, clouds cover the moon,
In the distance, mist still descends on the streets,
In the distance, the image of a thousand dying lights,
In the distance, death is still too late.

Of all the tragedies that have played themselves out,
With no agency of their own, just the intersection
Of a million objects in space, death is still too late,
Death is too little to assuage this grief,
That springs from existence itself.