Let  your  name  echo  on,

off  my  tongue,

I  fear  no  timely  death.

All  mortal  suffering  I  defy,

with  faith  no  savior  ought  deny.

I  watch  the  wraiths  as  they're  gathering,

preceding  Yama,  on  a  buffalo  steed,

he's  bearing  down  with  malevolence,

on  me.

Should  I  relent  and  lay  trust  in  your  goodness,

in  descent  through  the  crust  in  to  darkness?

My  Shiva,  I'm  fading.  Don't  forsake  me,  defend,

spare  me  this  end.

There  is  a  slightest  hinting  breeze.

Dare  I  awake  to  what  surrounds  my  vicinity?

Rising  up  I  find  myself  embracing  sights  familiar,

still,  like  homelands  left  in  wake  of  war.

And  what  form  is  this  that  lies  before  me  now?

Yama  is  your  name,  ol'  tyrant  infamed,

Gripping  your  noose  with  cadaverous  jade  hands.

Oh  Shiva,  you've  fell  death,

indebting  corporeal,

we  who  so  anxiously  drew  breath.

But  as  living  laws  crumble,

we've  lost  sight  of  justice,

perhaps  not  deities,

but  our  own  mortality  instills  in  us  all  our  morality.

Deathless  existence  has  become  the  worst  fate  I'd  imagine.

Return  mortal  curse.