I feel the senses of my flesh
in strength and vigor wane.
My sight grows dim, my hearing dull;
This body cries in vain.
My heartbeat fails, my hands turn cold,
my breathing starts to slow.
My mind produces final thought:
"You shall reap what you sow."
The cleavage of the soul from flesh,
like marrow from the bone,
the just desert of mortal man
which every man must own.
If death's a bandit, come to steal,
there's ir'ny in his task,
For, taking life, he brings me boon:
Joy, more than I could ask.
For as I lose my grip on life,
this life I love so well,
I start to sense a life so rich,
my life I lightly sell.