The Barrow

Few can feel so doomed as they: those born beneath a sun which flickers weak like candle's flame, whose life is nearly done.

A life beneath the glowing dust (for this remains of Day) is all there is for these poor souls until they pass away.

A beetle or a scrawny mouse to them must seem a feast, for scarce is now in darkness' gloom all other type of beast.

The ruins loom above them high where they have yet to fall, colossal towers of vanity: they are now empty, all.

One may wonder why indeed would life go on at all if all that life afforded there was Death's unyielding wall.

To them I'd say: 'tis always thus, and thus 'twill ever be: for Death awaits us all someday and comes for thee and me.