The April day is cold
And I await my death
Not in some distant future
Unknown to me,
Weak, mortal.

The April sky is grey
And death is creeping close
Down the hall it marches
And in my chair I shudder,
Weak, mortal.

The April sun is gone
And death is nearly here
For my soul it reaches,
For my life it craves,
And scared of death
I sit and wait
And wish I was not so
Weak, mortal.