These Cold Hands: Difference between revisions
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| Line 22: | Line 22: | ||
:Never have I, | :Never have I, | ||
:Looked for its grace. | :Looked for its grace. | ||
: | : - | ||
:Please, sir Death, | :Please, sir Death, | ||
:Wait, to reap me. | :Wait, to reap me. | ||
| Line 28: | Line 28: | ||
:Thy ode of demise, | :Thy ode of demise, | ||
:He, prepares his song. | :He, prepares his song. | ||
: | : - | ||
:I grow old, and cold, cold hands, | :I grow old, and cold, cold hands, | ||
:Grasp and claw at my being. | :Grasp and claw at my being. | ||
| Line 35: | Line 35: | ||
:Harbinger of all, | :Harbinger of all, | ||
:He waits for his yield. | :He waits for his yield. | ||
: | : - | ||
:This fountain of hope, | :This fountain of hope, | ||
:May it grace me with youth. | :May it grace me with youth. | ||
| Line 41: | Line 41: | ||
:As his agents do play, | :As his agents do play, | ||
:His, foul, ode. | :His, foul, ode. | ||
: | : - | ||
:I search, and search, | :I search, and search, | ||
:And have yet, to find it. | :And have yet, to find it. | ||
| Line 48: | Line 48: | ||
:I grow older, still. | :I grow older, still. | ||
:These cold, cold, hands. | :These cold, cold, hands. | ||
: | : - | ||
:He has yet to show mercy, | :He has yet to show mercy, | ||
:My soul is an ember, | :My soul is an ember, | ||
| Line 55: | Line 55: | ||
:To the edges of time, | :To the edges of time, | ||
:There do I find a strange spire. | :There do I find a strange spire. | ||
: | : - | ||
:Please, sir Death, | :Please, sir Death, | ||
:Wait, to reap me. | :Wait, to reap me. | ||
| Line 61: | Line 61: | ||
:Thy ode of demise. | :Thy ode of demise. | ||
:He, prepares his song. | :He, prepares his song. | ||
: | : - | ||
:This spire contains, | :This spire contains, | ||
:The strangest of things, | :The strangest of things, | ||
| Line 69: | Line 69: | ||
:I raise my hands, | :I raise my hands, | ||
:To grasp this cure. | :To grasp this cure. | ||
: | : - | ||
:Please, sir Death, | :Please, sir Death, | ||
:Wait, to reap me. | :Wait, to reap me. | ||
| Line 75: | Line 75: | ||
:Thy ode of demise. | :Thy ode of demise. | ||
:He, prepares his song. | :He, prepares his song. | ||
: | : - | ||
:With a dying breath, | :With a dying breath, | ||
:I lower my hands. | :I lower my hands. | ||
| Line 83: | Line 83: | ||
:My being is intact, | :My being is intact, | ||
:Sir Death, I laugh. | :Sir Death, I laugh. | ||
: | : - | ||
:It wasn't I, | :It wasn't I, | ||
:Who had the last laugh, | :Who had the last laugh, | ||
| Line 92: | Line 92: | ||
:"Please, show mercy, | :"Please, show mercy, | ||
:I've ventured so far!" | :I've ventured so far!" | ||
: | : - | ||
:He shook his head, | :He shook his head, | ||
:Or so I saw. | :Or so I saw. | ||
| Line 101: | Line 101: | ||
:He pierced my being, | :He pierced my being, | ||
:He harvested the ash of my soul. | :He harvested the ash of my soul. | ||
: | : - | ||
:To this, I warn thee, | :To this, I warn thee, | ||
:Accept your fate. | :Accept your fate. | ||
| Line 107: | Line 107: | ||
:Oh, young boy, | :Oh, young boy, | ||
:Don't tempt Death. | :Don't tempt Death. | ||
: | : - | ||
:Sir Death is waiting. | :Sir Death is waiting. | ||
: | : - | ||
{{Tales}} | {{Tales}} | ||
====Accreditation==== | ====Accreditation==== | ||
Revision as of 10:55, 2 November 2015
| ||
| Author: Unknown | ||
| Genre: Poetry | ||
| Accessibility: Common Knowledge |
These Cold Hands
- I've heard a tale,
- Of a fountain of hope.
- It's waters restore,
- What we have lost.
- Never have I,
- Looked for its grace.
- -
- Please, sir Death,
- Wait, to reap me.
- Spare me, spare me,
- Thy ode of demise,
- He, prepares his song.
- -
- I grow old, and cold, cold hands,
- Grasp and claw at my being.
- Please sir Death,
- Wait, to reap me.
- Harbinger of all,
- He waits for his yield.
- -
- This fountain of hope,
- May it grace me with youth.
- He conducts,
- As his agents do play,
- His, foul, ode.
- -
- I search, and search,
- And have yet, to find it.
- The Fountain of Life.
- May its waters, grace me.
- I grow older, still.
- These cold, cold, hands.
- -
- He has yet to show mercy,
- My soul is an ember,
- For him to snuffle out.
- I search beyond,
- To the edges of time,
- There do I find a strange spire.
- -
- Please, sir Death,
- Wait, to reap me.
- Spare me, spare me,
- Thy ode of demise.
- He, prepares his song.
- -
- This spire contains,
- The strangest of things,
- A stone, a hole bored in its core.
- From this pit, this endless cavern,
- Waters that shine in the sun.
- I raise my hands,
- To grasp this cure.
- -
- Please, sir Death,
- Wait, to reap me.
- Spare me, spare me,
- Thy ode of demise.
- He, prepares his song.
- -
- With a dying breath,
- I lower my hands.
- I sip from the glory of God.
- My soul is ablaze,
- The ember restored.
- My being is intact,
- Sir Death, I laugh.
- -
- It wasn't I,
- Who had the last laugh,
- Sir Death had been waiting,
- Planning my doom.
- He wanted me dead,
- But I rebelled and said,
- "Please, show mercy,
- I've ventured so far!"
- -
- He shook his head,
- Or so I saw.
- He raised his hand,
- His scythe, of shadows,
- Appeared at his very whim.
- With one final movement,
- He pierced my being,
- He harvested the ash of my soul.
- -
- To this, I warn thee,
- Accept your fate.
- Sir Death is waiting.
- Oh, young boy,
- Don't tempt Death.
- -
- Sir Death is waiting.
- -
Accreditation
- Written by MiningToBedrock_.
- Processed by MonMarty.