Several stood around the man, old and disfigured,
Who was resisting the embrace of death.

Curious, I inquired of someone:

The man had made a promise,
As ancient as his withered body.

To die only by the hand of the Right Person.
Many came, seeking to learn the name of this person.

Yet the man couldn’t—or wouldn’t—remember.
Thus he endured agony, refusing to accept
Death’s merciful gift.

He bled, his skin rotting,
His hair falling, blood congealed; still, he refused
To embrace death’s release.

Those who cared wept, those who loved pleaded,
Begging him to surrender. For the Right Person
Might never come, or could forget the promise made.

I watched this for a long time and decided to commit the sin.
Now I deliver the gift, by gently strangling him to sleep.