Of course it is too late,
And the party will have to stop,
And all the guests will have to hop.
The flowers wilt and lose their hue,
The birds stop singing in the blue,
As the sun sets and the moon is out,
The silence fills the air with doubt.
Swings his scythe with deadly grace,
Cuts the threads of time and space,
Reaps the souls of young and old,
And leaves behind a field of gold.
As the Reaper leaves the scene,
The garden looks serene,
But underneath the golden glow,
Lies a secret only he can know.
He has collected all the souls,
And stored them in his secret vaults,
He will return when they are ripe,
And harvest them again with his scythe.
As the Reaper goes his way,
He hums a tune of joy and play,
He loves his job and never tires,
Of collecting souls for his desires.
--Pradeep K (Prady)
-o-
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