Let your name echo on,
off my tongue,
I fear no timely death.

All mortal suffering I defy,
with faith no savior ought deny.


I watch the wraiths as they're gathering,
preceding Yama, on a buffalo steed,
he's bearing down with malevolence,

on me.

Should I relent and lay trust in your goodness,

in descent through the crust in to darkness?
My Shiva, I'm fading. Don't forsake me, defend,
spare me this end.


There is a slightest hinting breeze.
Dare I awake to what surrounds my vicinity?

Rising up I find myself embracing sights familiar,
still, like homelands left in wake of war.
And what form is this that lies before me now?

Yama is your name, ol' tyrant infamed,
Gripping your noose with cadaverous jade hands.
Oh Shiva, you've fell death,

indebting corporeal,
we who so anxiously drew breath.


But as living laws crumble,
we've lost sight of justice,
perhaps not deities,

but our own mortality instills in us all our morality.

Deathless existence has become the worst fate I'd imagine.

Return mortal curse.