O, sweet children, how easily you are fooled
To think that all is bright and well,
When in your very midst a traitor foul
Most deviously does dwell.
And that be none but I, your ancient foe,
Death! Have you forgot?
I assure you, little ones, that I have not. . .
From birth's bright flash, I stalk you in your steps. . .
That shadow in the corner? O'er the hill?
Just me. . . waiting my moment to fulfill
My task--to bring you to your knees
With subtle ailments which you call disease--
Do you think you can escape from me
In your brief moment of proud glory,
Because the history books will tell your story,
The crowd's loud kudos echoing between stadia?
How quickly you forget I, too, dread Death,
Am amongst you, even now, in bright Arcadia.
--from a collection of poems called SONGS WITHOUT SOUND