A poem by Carl Sundell
When Death comes
banging on my door,
let him in.
I’d count it no sin
to surrender my skin
to the old pale Prince.
If I’ve not done
what God meant me to do,
it’s the Devil’s right
to claim what’s due.
Best to box and bury me nice,
Even if fire and ashes suffice.Â
Souls do not end
buried in sod,
but if they so pray,
in the lap of God.
Which is far better,
to sleep in God’s peace,
or to struggle, connive
and wail without cease?
But still here I am.
Death bangs on my door.
I do not whimper
for precious years more.
I just stagger on
toward my humble sleep
so very dark
and vastly deep.
