Peace, Peace, longing for death's cold hand,
Come, come, take me where I stand.
An old widow languidly dies,
No one there, no one who cries.
Stranded, forlorn, tired and ready,
Her wrinkled hand no longer steady.
Quiet was the evening she made her flight,
Gone away, out of mortal sight.
The clock continued to tick,
She lied there steady as a stick.
People outside around conversed,
Death proceeded as if rehearsed.
All through life lived with pride,
Now empty at her side.
Like a quick little wink,
Life eludes her, a broken link.
Slowly, slowly, welcome it with ease,
Come, come, take me please.
Futile and vain to make a stand,
There is no elating death's cold hand.