Extemporaneously written at Midnight
And meandered to the cusp of its yard
I saw there a magnificent statue
The Angel of Death, Azrael, cradling a child
Enwrapt with this child was
The infinity of grace and Heaven
I then walked further and further
And entered the garden of Death itself
But it was no garden at all
It was Death's well-tended field of our mortality
I am sure that those before
Who have trod here
Have mistaken the pestilence for peace
The rot for resurrection
It was then that I no longer believed
That Death was really a release from life
But instead the sowing of our lives for Death's field of want and wont
— M.M.
