Death comes to her
like a steadfast
lover, marching

taciturnly on well-tread
feet. The quivering mounds
of putrefied flesh

whisper that familiar,
tired prayer of centuries-
old:

“Padre Nuestro
que estas en el cielo,
santificado sea tu Nombre…”

But Death does not
heed lightly
to the laudations

of earthly merit. She breaths
those words, hoping
to delay the inevitable.

“…venga a nosotros tu reino
hagase tu voluntad en la
tierra en el cielo.”

The tears roll down
withered cheeks,
pooling in sunken fissures.

“Danos hoy nuestro pad de
cada dia; perdona nuestra ofensas
como tambien nosotros perdonamos
a los pue nos ofenden…”

The church bells in the
town square sound that
signal of impending doom.

“…no nos dejes caer en
la tentacion, y libranos
del mal.”

Upon her final Amen,
let that meadow lark
Gabriel descend from

those lofty Heavens,
blaring his trumpet
on loud.

Baptize her with the
Holy Water, so that Death
will hold no part in her.