The Hind Who Awaited Her Doom.

The Hind Who Awaited Her Doom

Pain bears a multitude of daggers bright,
And every blade was fashioned for an end:
One for the heart that opened in delight,
One for the wound delivered by a friend;
One for the soul made weary by deceit,
One for the hands that cast the weak away,
And one to leave the wounded at the feet
Of earth which God created from the clay.

Men take those daggers, hidden from the light,
And keep them underneath a courteous sleeve;
They smile as though their purpose were delight,
Then strike the breast that dared in them believe.
They wound until the spirit longs to die,
Until the body trembles on the ground,
While Heaven alone receives the final cry
That mortal ears refuse to hear or sound.

The colour fades and vanishes from sight;
You never see the coming of the blade.
A darkened fairy tale begins at night,
Where scarlet hoods through haunted woods are laid.
The crimson cloth appears both warm and fair,
A little flame among the branches cold;
Yet wolves have learned to dress themselves with care,
And lies may wear a garment bright as gold.

Beware the earth beneath thy wandering feet,
For it is holy, formed by God’s own hand;
Yet human rage has made its grasses meet
With innocent blood poured upon the land.
Behold the soil—it breaks, it bleeds, it cries;
Its ancient wounds are opening once more.
The ground remembers every soul that dies
And bears the stains mankind cannot restore.

Since Abel fell beneath his brother’s hand,
The earth has drunk the sorrow of the slain.
Cain stole the righteous shepherd from the land
And left his mother bowed beneath her pain.
The field received the blood of one so mild;
The heavens heard it speaking from below.
Yet God, in mercy, sent to us a Child,
A promised Light no darkness could overthrow.

Cain took our Abel, innocent and true,
But Heaven did not leave the world undone;
For from our grief a greater mercy grew,
And unto us was born the Holy Son.
Let flutes be heard beyond the mortal air;
Let music tremble through the courts above.
The angels gather round the infant fair
And sing of peace, redemption, truth and love.

“Behold, a Child is born,” the heavens say;
The stars bend low above the sleeping earth.
The night that seemed to swallow hope away
Is made a cradle by the Saviour’s birth.
And though the fields remember Abel’s breath,
And though the soil bears every scarlet stain,
The Christ has entered through the door of death,
That grief may not forevermore remain.

Yet still the wolf comes walking through the trees,
With patient steps and hunger in his eyes.
He moves as softly as the midnight breeze
And clothes his cruel purpose in disguise.
The moment that you see him, you would run,
Yet terror binds the sinews of your frame;
Your feet forget the pathway to the sun,
Your lips can scarcely shape the Saviour’s name.

You see him coming—nearer, nearer still—
But cannot move, nor turn, nor cry aloud.
The forest waits beneath a deathly chill;
The moon withdraws behind a mourning cloud.
The earth begins to stagger like one drunk,
Its mountains groan, its roots are torn apart;
The ground is split, the innocent blood is sunk
Into the darkness of its broken heart.

It opens wide and swallows every tear,
Each nameless child, each undefended soul;
It drinks the evidence of mortal fear,
As though the grave itself possessed control.
But blood once shed is never truly dumb;
It speaks like Abel from beneath the sod.
No stone can seal it, and no night can come
So deep that it is hidden from our God.

The wolf begins to dance upon that place,
A dreadful waltz on consecrated ground.
He wears refinement like a silken lace,
While death keeps time beneath the music’s sound.
He turns beneath the trees with measured grace,
As though no blood had stained his polished feet;
Yet hunger is the master of his face,
And cruelty conducts the rhythm sweet.

He dances where the earth was made divine,
Where every leaf was touched by Heaven’s breath.
He lifts a cup of dark and scarlet wine
And drinks beneath the bridal veil of death.
The moon looks down, a pale and watchful eye;
The branches bow like mourners dressed in black.
The nightingale forgets her lullaby,
And every path refuses to lead back.

Behind the wood, a hidden watcher stands,
Disguised beneath the beauty of the night.
A lie is painted delicately by hands
That draw your form and call the falsehood right.
Those hands perform a slow and graceful part,
A lullaby of honey mixed with blood;
They sketch a mask and place it on your heart,
Then leave your name half-buried in the mud.

The moonlight hums a cradle-song of pain,
So sweet that even sorrow seems to sleep;
It tastes of honey, yet it falls like rain
Upon the wounds the trembling spirits keep.
The cup is filled with rich and crimson wine,
But scarlet threads are curling through its gold;
The sweet and bitter secretly combine,
And childhood’s tale grows merciless and cold.

The hind looks upward, knowing what shall be.
She sees the teeth, the fury and the breath.
No friendly branch will bend to set her free;
No hidden road will bear her far from death.
Her slender legs are frozen where she lies;
Her little crown is trembling on her head.
A river falls from out her frightened eyes,
For hope has heard the sentence hunger said.

She knows the wolf intends to take her life.
She knows his mercy is an empty name.
She cannot flee the forest or the knife;
She cannot quench the dark, consuming flame.
She only waits beneath his shadowed face,
Too weak to fight, too terrified to cry,
And yields her fragile body to that place
Where even innocence is left to die.

No rescuer appears beyond the trees.
No gentle hand removes her from the ground.
Her frightened heart is trembling in the breeze,
While all the forest gathers at the sound.
The wolf bends near; she feels his burning breath.
His shadow covers all the moonlit sky.
She understands the nearness of her death,
Yet has no strength to flee and nowhere to hide.

She knows that she will soon be overcome,
That hunger has already sealed her doom.
Her little voice has suddenly gone numb,
And darkness grows around her like a tomb.
She does not choose the ending drawing near;
She does not offer willingly her breath.
She simply lies there, paralysed by fear,
Awaiting what she cannot turn from—death.

Yet in her tears there lives a silent prayer,
Too deep for mortal language to contain:
“O Lord who formed the earth, behold me there;
Remember me within this hour of pain.
Though men may leave me broken in the dust,
Though wolves may call their appetite a right,
Receive the little faith I still entrust,
And carry me beyond this cruel night.”

The wolf may bend above her with his teeth;
The world may turn its countenance away.
The soil may close upon the blood beneath,
And liars may deny the light of day.
But God remembers every trembling breath,
Each tear that fell from innocence betrayed;
He counts the heartbeats silenced under death
And knows the purpose of each hidden blade.

No crown is lost because it falls in mud;
No gentle soul is worthless when it bleeds.
The Lord who heard the voice of Abel’s blood
Still sees the wound and judges human deeds.
The holy ground may open under sin,
Yet Heaven does not slumber at the cry.
Where mortal cruelty appears to win,
Eternal justice keeps its watchful eye.

So let the flutes of Paradise arise;
Let sacred music break the wolf’s refrain.
Let Bethlehem return before our eyes,
And Christ be born within the world’s great pain.
For when the earth is staggering below,
And scarlet rivers darken every field,
The Child of Heaven enters human woe,
A living hope no dagger yet can kill.

The hind awaits the doom she cannot flee;
The wolf still dances, satisfied by none.
But far beyond the dark and twisted tree,
A morning gathers round the Holy One.
The moon may sing of honey mixed with blood,
And hands may draw a lie around her name;
Yet God shall raise the truth above the flood,
And every hidden wound shall speak its claim.

Thus holy soil remembers what was done,
From Abel’s field unto the present hour.
The wolf may boast beneath the setting sun,
But hunger cannot conquer Heaven’s power.
And she who lay abandoned, weak and torn,
Shall not be lost beneath the world’s cold breath;
For unto us the promised Child was born,
And Love shall have the final word on death.

........ 

Espanol

La Cierva que Aguardaba su Perdición

El dolor lleva innumerables dagas relucientes,
y cada hoja fue forjada para un propósito:
una para el corazón que se abrió con alegría,
otra para la herida causada por un amigo;
una para el alma fatigada por el engaño,
otra para las manos que abandonan al débil,
y una más para dejar al herido a los pies
de la tierra que Dios creó del barro.

Los hombres toman esas dagas, ocultas de la luz,
y las guardan bajo una manga cortés;
sonríen como si sus intenciones fueran buenas,
y después atraviesan el pecho que se atrevió a creer en ellos.
Hieren hasta que el espíritu desea morir,
hasta que el cuerpo tiembla tendido en el suelo,
mientras solamente el Cielo recibe el último clamor
que los oídos mortales se niegan a escuchar o responder.

El color se disipa y desaparece de la vista;
jamás ves venir el filo de la daga.
Un cuento de hadas oscurecido comienza en la noche,
donde caperuzas escarlata atraviesan bosques encantados.
La tela carmesí parece cálida y hermosa,
una pequeña llama entre las ramas heladas;
pero los lobos han aprendido a vestirse con elegancia,
y las mentiras pueden llevar vestiduras de oro resplandeciente.

Ten cuidado con la tierra bajo tus pies errantes,
pues es santa, formada por la mano de Dios;
sin embargo, la furia humana ha hecho que sus hierbas
se encuentren cubiertas por sangre inocente.
Contempla el suelo: se rompe, sangra y clama;
sus antiguas heridas vuelven a abrirse.
La tierra recuerda cada alma que muere
y conserva las manchas que la humanidad no puede limpiar.

Desde que Abel cayó bajo la mano de su hermano,
la tierra ha bebido el dolor de los asesinados.
Caín arrebató de este mundo al pastor justo
y dejó a su madre inclinada bajo el peso de su sufrimiento.
El campo recibió la sangre de aquel hombre apacible;
los cielos la escucharon hablar desde las profundidades.
Sin embargo, Dios, en su misericordia, nos envió un Niño,
una Luz prometida que ninguna oscuridad podría vencer.

Caín nos arrebató a Abel, inocente y verdadero,
pero el Cielo no dejó al mundo abandonado;
pues de nuestro dolor nació una misericordia aún mayor,
y nos fue dado el Hijo Santo.
Que las flautas resuenen más allá del aire mortal;
que la música estremezca los atrios celestiales.
Los ángeles se reúnen alrededor del hermoso Infante
y cantan sobre la paz, la redención, la verdad y el amor.

«He aquí, un Niño nos ha nacido», proclaman los cielos;
las estrellas se inclinan sobre la tierra dormida.
La noche que parecía devorar toda esperanza
se convierte en una cuna por el nacimiento del Salvador.
Y aunque los campos todavía recuerdan el aliento de Abel,
y aunque la tierra lleva cada mancha escarlata,
Cristo ha atravesado la puerta de la muerte
para que el dolor no permanezca eternamente.

Pero el lobo continúa caminando entre los árboles,
con pasos pacientes y hambre en los ojos.
Se mueve tan suavemente como la brisa de medianoche
y reviste de disfraz sus crueles intenciones.
En el instante en que lo ves, deseas correr,
pero el terror encadena los nervios de tu cuerpo;
tus pies olvidan el camino que conduce hacia el sol
y tus labios apenas logran pronunciar el nombre del Salvador.

Lo ves acercarse, cada vez más y más,
pero no puedes moverte, darte la vuelta ni gritar.
El bosque espera bajo un frío mortal;
la luna se oculta detrás de una nube de luto.
La tierra comienza a tambalearse como un borracho,
sus montañas gimen y sus raíces son desgarradas;
el suelo se abre y la sangre de los inocentes se hunde
en la oscuridad de su corazón quebrantado.

La tierra abre su boca y se traga cada lágrima,
a cada niño sin nombre y a cada alma indefensa;
bebe las pruebas del miedo mortal
como si la tumba misma poseyera el control.
Pero la sangre derramada nunca permanece verdaderamente muda;
habla como la sangre de Abel desde debajo de la tierra.
Ninguna piedra puede silenciarla y ninguna noche puede ser
tan profunda que logre ocultarla de nuestro Dios.

El lobo comienza a danzar sobre aquel lugar,
un vals espantoso sobre suelo consagrado.
Lleva el refinamiento como si fuera un encaje de seda,
mientras la muerte marca el compás de la música.
Gira entre los árboles con movimientos elegantes,
como si la sangre jamás hubiera manchado sus pies pulidos;
pero el hambre gobierna su rostro
y la crueldad dirige aquel dulce ritmo.

Danza sobre la tierra que fue creada divina,
donde cada hoja fue tocada por el aliento del Cielo.
Levanta una copa de vino oscuro y escarlata
y bebe bajo el velo nupcial de la muerte.
La luna contempla desde lo alto como un ojo pálido y vigilante;
las ramas se inclinan como dolientes vestidos de negro.
El ruiseñor olvida su canción de cuna
y todos los senderos se niegan a mostrar el camino de regreso.

Detrás del bosque permanece un observador oculto,
disfrazado bajo la belleza de la noche.
Una mentira es pintada delicadamente por unas manos
que dibujan tu figura y declaran verdadero lo falso.
Aquellas manos ejecutan una danza lenta y elegante,
una canción de cuna hecha de miel mezclada con sangre;
dibujan una máscara y la colocan sobre tu corazón,
y después dejan tu nombre medio enterrado en el barro.

La luz de la luna murmura una canción de cuna dolorosa,
tan dulce que incluso la tristeza parece dormirse;
tiene sabor a miel, pero cae como lluvia
sobre las heridas que guardan los espíritus temblorosos.
La copa está llena de un vino intenso y carmesí,
pero hilos escarlata se enroscan entre su resplandor dorado;
lo dulce y lo amargo se mezclan en secreto,
y el cuento de la infancia se vuelve despiadado y frío.

La cierva levanta la mirada, sabiendo lo que sucederá.
Ve los dientes, la furia y el aliento del lobo.
Ninguna rama bondadosa se inclinará para liberarla;
ningún camino oculto podrá alejarla de la muerte.
Sus delicadas patas permanecen inmóviles donde yace;
su pequeña corona tiembla sobre su cabeza.
Un río desciende desde sus ojos aterrorizados,
pues la esperanza ya ha escuchado la sentencia pronunciada por el hambre.

Ella sabe que el lobo pretende arrebatarle la vida.
Sabe que su misericordia no es más que un nombre vacío.
No puede escapar del bosque ni de la daga;
no puede apagar aquella llama oscura y devoradora.
Solamente espera bajo el rostro ensombrecido del lobo,
demasiado débil para luchar y demasiado aterrorizada para gritar,
y entrega su frágil cuerpo a aquel lugar
donde incluso la inocencia es abandonada para morir.

Ningún salvador aparece detrás de los árboles.
Ninguna mano bondadosa la levanta del suelo.
Su corazón asustado tiembla con la brisa,
mientras todo el bosque se reúne alrededor del sonido.
El lobo se inclina; ella siente su aliento ardiente.
Su sombra cubre por completo el cielo iluminado por la luna.
La cierva comprende que la muerte está cerca,
pero no tiene fuerzas para huir ni lugar donde esconderse.

Sabe que pronto será vencida,
que el hambre ya ha sellado su condena.
Su pequeña voz se ha quedado repentinamente muda,
y la oscuridad crece a su alrededor como una tumba.
Ella no escoge el final que se aproxima;
no entrega voluntariamente su aliento.
Simplemente permanece tendida, paralizada por el miedo,
aguardando aquello de lo que no puede escapar: la muerte.

Sin embargo, dentro de sus lágrimas vive una oración silenciosa,
demasiado profunda para ser expresada con palabras humanas:

«Oh, Señor que formaste la tierra, contémplame aquí;
recuérdame en esta hora de dolor.
Aunque los hombres me abandonen quebrantada en el polvo,
aunque los lobos proclamen que su apetito es un derecho,
recibe la pequeña fe que todavía deposito en Ti
y llévame más allá de esta noche cruel».

El lobo podrá inclinarse sobre ella mostrando los dientes;
el mundo podrá volver su rostro hacia otro lado.
La tierra podrá cerrarse sobre la sangre derramada
y los mentirosos podrán negar la luz del día.
Pero Dios recuerda cada aliento tembloroso,
cada lágrima que cayó de la inocencia traicionada;
cuenta los latidos silenciados por la muerte
y conoce el propósito de cada daga escondida.

Ninguna corona está perdida porque caiga en el barro;
ninguna alma bondadosa pierde su valor cuando sangra.
El Señor que escuchó la voz de la sangre de Abel
todavía contempla la herida y juzga las obras humanas.
El suelo santo podrá abrirse bajo el peso del pecado,
pero el Cielo no duerme cuando escucha el clamor.
Allí donde la crueldad de los mortales parece triunfar,
la justicia eterna mantiene abierto su ojo vigilante.

Que se alcen, entonces, las flautas del Paraíso;
que la música sagrada interrumpa el estribillo del lobo.
Que Belén vuelva a aparecer ante nuestros ojos
y que Cristo nazca dentro del gran dolor del mundo.
Porque cuando la tierra se tambalea bajo nuestros pies
y los ríos escarlata oscurecen todos los campos,
el Niño del Cielo entra en el sufrimiento humano,
una esperanza viviente que ninguna daga puede destruir.

La cierva aguarda la perdición de la cual no puede escapar;
el lobo continúa danzando, sin sentirse jamás satisfecho.
Pero más allá del árbol oscuro y retorcido,
un nuevo amanecer se reúne alrededor del Santo.
La luna podrá cantar sobre miel mezclada con sangre,
y unas manos podrán dibujar una mentira alrededor de su nombre;
pero Dios levantará la verdad por encima del diluvio,
y cada herida escondida presentará su testimonio.

Así, la tierra santa recuerda todo cuanto fue hecho,
desde el campo de Abel hasta la hora presente.
El lobo podrá jactarse bajo el sol que se oculta,
pero su hambre no puede vencer el poder del Cielo.
Y aquella que permaneció abandonada, débil y herida,
no se perderá bajo el aliento frío del mundo;
pues el Niño prometido nos ha nacido,
y el Amor tendrá la última palabra sobre la muerte.

The Hind Who Awaited Her Doom

Pain bears a multitude of daggers bright,
And every blade was fashioned for an end:
One for the heart that opened in delight,
One for the wound delivered by a friend;
One for the soul made weary by deceit,
One for the hands that cast the weak away,
And one to leave the wounded at the feet
Of earth which God created from the clay.

Men take those daggers, hidden from the light,
And keep them underneath a courteous sleeve;
They smile as though their purpose were delight,
Then strike the breast that dared in them believe.
They wound until the spirit longs to die,
Until the body trembles on the ground,
While Heaven alone receives the final cry
That mortal ears refuse to hear or sound.

The colour fades and vanishes from sight;
You never see the coming of the blade.
A darkened fairy tale begins at night,
Where scarlet hoods through haunted woods are laid.
The crimson cloth appears both warm and fair,
A little flame among the branches cold;
Yet wolves have learned to dress themselves with care,
And lies may wear a garment bright as gold.

Beware the earth beneath thy wandering feet,
For it is holy, formed by God’s own hand;
Yet human rage has made its grasses meet
With innocent blood poured upon the land.
Behold the soil—it breaks, it bleeds, it cries;
Its ancient wounds are opening once more.
The ground remembers every soul that dies
And bears the stains mankind cannot restore.

Since Abel fell beneath his brother’s hand,
The earth has drunk the sorrow of the slain.
Cain stole the righteous shepherd from the land
And left his mother bowed beneath her pain.
The field received the blood of one so mild;
The heavens heard it speaking from below.
Yet God, in mercy, sent to us a Child,
A promised Light no darkness could overthrow.

Cain took our Abel, innocent and true,
But Heaven did not leave the world undone;
For from our grief a greater mercy grew,
And unto us was born the Holy Son.
Let flutes be heard beyond the mortal air;
Let music tremble through the courts above.
The angels gather round the infant fair
And sing of peace, redemption, truth and love.

“Behold, a Child is born,” the heavens say;
The stars bend low above the sleeping earth.
The night that seemed to swallow hope away
Is made a cradle by the Saviour’s birth.
And though the fields remember Abel’s breath,
And though the soil bears every scarlet stain,
The Christ has entered through the door of death,
That grief may not forevermore remain.

Yet still the wolf comes walking through the trees,
With patient steps and hunger in his eyes.
He moves as softly as the midnight breeze
And clothes his cruel purpose in disguise.
The moment that you see him, you would run,
Yet terror binds the sinews of your frame;
Your feet forget the pathway to the sun,
Your lips can scarcely shape the Saviour’s name.

You see him coming—nearer, nearer still—
But cannot move, nor turn, nor cry aloud.
The forest waits beneath a deathly chill;
The moon withdraws behind a mourning cloud.
The earth begins to stagger like one drunk,
Its mountains groan, its roots are torn apart;
The ground is split, the innocent blood is sunk
Into the darkness of its broken heart.

It opens wide and swallows every tear,
Each nameless child, each undefended soul;
It drinks the evidence of mortal fear,
As though the grave itself possessed control.
But blood once shed is never truly dumb;
It speaks like Abel from beneath the sod.
No stone can seal it, and no night can come
So deep that it is hidden from our God.

The wolf begins to dance upon that place,
A dreadful waltz on consecrated ground.
He wears refinement like a silken lace,
While death keeps time beneath the music’s sound.
He turns beneath the trees with measured grace,
As though no blood had stained his polished feet;
Yet hunger is the master of his face,
And cruelty conducts the rhythm sweet.

He dances where the earth was made divine,
Where every leaf was touched by Heaven’s breath.
He lifts a cup of dark and scarlet wine
And drinks beneath the bridal veil of death.
The moon looks down, a pale and watchful eye;
The branches bow like mourners dressed in black.
The nightingale forgets her lullaby,
And every path refuses to lead back.

Behind the wood, a hidden watcher stands,
Disguised beneath the beauty of the night.
A lie is painted delicately by hands
That draw your form and call the falsehood right.
Those hands perform a slow and graceful part,
A lullaby of honey mixed with blood;
They sketch a mask and place it on your heart,
Then leave your name half-buried in the mud.

The moonlight hums a cradle-song of pain,
So sweet that even sorrow seems to sleep;
It tastes of honey, yet it falls like rain
Upon the wounds the trembling spirits keep.
The cup is filled with rich and crimson wine,
But scarlet threads are curling through its gold;
The sweet and bitter secretly combine,
And childhood’s tale grows merciless and cold.

The hind looks upward, knowing what shall be.
She sees the teeth, the fury and the breath.
No friendly branch will bend to set her free;
No hidden road will bear her far from death.
Her slender legs are frozen where she lies;
Her little crown is trembling on her head.
A river falls from out her frightened eyes,
For hope has heard the sentence hunger said.

She knows the wolf intends to take her life.
She knows his mercy is an empty name.
She cannot flee the forest or the knife;
She cannot quench the dark, consuming flame.
She only waits beneath his shadowed face,
Too weak to fight, too terrified to cry,
And yields her fragile body to that place
Where even innocence is left to die.

No rescuer appears beyond the trees.
No gentle hand removes her from the ground.
Her frightened heart is trembling in the breeze,
While all the forest gathers at the sound.
The wolf bends near; she feels his burning breath.
His shadow covers all the moonlit sky.
She understands the nearness of her death,
Yet has no strength to flee and nowhere to hide.

She knows that she will soon be overcome,
That hunger has already sealed her doom.
Her little voice has suddenly gone numb,
And darkness grows around her like a tomb.
She does not choose the ending drawing near;
She does not offer willingly her breath.
She simply lies there, paralysed by fear,
Awaiting what she cannot turn from—death.

Yet in her tears there lives a silent prayer,
Too deep for mortal language to contain:
“O Lord who formed the earth, behold me there;
Remember me within this hour of pain.
Though men may leave me broken in the dust,
Though wolves may call their appetite a right,
Receive the little faith I still entrust,
And carry me beyond this cruel night.”

The wolf may bend above her with his teeth;
The world may turn its countenance away.
The soil may close upon the blood beneath,
And liars may deny the light of day.
But God remembers every trembling breath,
Each tear that fell from innocence betrayed;
He counts the heartbeats silenced under death
And knows the purpose of each hidden blade.

No crown is lost because it falls in mud;
No gentle soul is worthless when it bleeds.
The Lord who heard the voice of Abel’s blood
Still sees the wound and judges human deeds.
The holy ground may open under sin,
Yet Heaven does not slumber at the cry.
Where mortal cruelty appears to win,
Eternal justice keeps its watchful eye.

So let the flutes of Paradise arise;
Let sacred music break the wolf’s refrain.
Let Bethlehem return before our eyes,
And Christ be born within the world’s great pain.
For when the earth is staggering below,
And scarlet rivers darken every field,
The Child of Heaven enters human woe,
A living hope no dagger yet can kill.

The hind awaits the doom she cannot flee;
The wolf still dances, satisfied by none.
But far beyond the dark and twisted tree,
A morning gathers round the Holy One.
The moon may sing of honey mixed with blood,
And hands may draw a lie around her name;
Yet God shall raise the truth above the flood,
And every hidden wound shall speak its claim.

Thus holy soil remembers what was done,
From Abel’s field unto the present hour.
The wolf may boast beneath the setting sun,
But hunger cannot conquer Heaven’s power.
And she who lay abandoned, weak and torn,
Shall not be lost beneath the world’s cold breath;
For unto us the promised Child was born,
And Love shall have the final word on death.

........