Man, I think, is dying br br It is not a silent death br Nor is it a screaming, burning end br We will not know until our final breath br That against ourselves we must defend br br It is not the sword that we must fear br It is the poison in our veins br It is not the thunder we must hear br It is the quiet, tapping rain br br Man, I think, is dying br br We are being slain by our brothers br Who, for some strange guilty reason br Would rather slay us than others br To preserve a changing season br br Death is natural, yet an unnatural death is this br What is our guilt, that we must die? br Must we thus concede to poison’s kiss? br Or are our deaths insidious lies? br br Man, I think, is dying br br Our Requiem is written br Yet it fuels the blazing fire br It should from our memories be smitten br For its pages kindle our funeral pyre br br Death descends on verdant wings br Yet him we welcome with our bell br Forth across the sky it rings: br Our final funeral knellbr br John Thornebr br