Loss of love, loss of life
Loss of all to the knife
The scythe of death
The cutter of breath
Such a blade of power
One that makes us cower
The blade of the reaper
The power of it's keeper
It comes in many ways
In any of the passing days
In our slumber
In the years of number
As we weep
Or by the things that creep
Fate wants our hearts and souls
So on the wheel she pulls and pulls
With Death waiting there with his scythe
There to cut our life forthwith
