A Poem from Death

A Poem from Death

Except for the sound of an old wall clock, the room was silent. Moonlight filtered through the cracked windowpane, painting silver shadows on the dusty floor. At the center of the room sat an old man, pen in hand, eyes glassy with memories. His name was Mr. Rayhan was a famous poet who is now just a whisper in the literary world. He waited tonight. Not for a muse or a visitor, but for Death.

He had known it was coming — the signs were clear. The heavy breaths, the trembling hands, the quiet voice that once roared through stages and pages now reduced to a whisper. But Mr. Rayhan didn't worry. No, he had one last poem to write, and he hoped Death would wait long enough for him to finish it.

He also showed up just as midnight approached. Not with scythes or chains, not with horror or screams. Death came as a shadow with kind eyes, draped in a dark cloak, silent as falling ash.

"You're early," Rayhan said, looking up.

Death tilted his head. "I am never early. Neither late I come when I must."

"Now sit. Let me provide you with something that no one else has." He pointed to the chair across from him. Death paused, intrigued, then settled into the seat across from him.

"A poem?" Death asked.

Rayhan said, gently tapping the pen on the table, "A gift." "But also a request. Let me finish it."

Death nodded. "I have seen many last poems. Few are worth remembering."

Rayhan smiled faintly. "Then permit me to attempt to be different." He dipped the pen into ink and began to write. And as he did, he spoke the verses aloud, as if each word was a part of his soul being etched into eternity.

---

"From Death's Poem" *I heard you knocking, shadowed friend,

with steps that are so soft near the end. You came not loud, nor cruel, nor wild,

But like a hush to calm a child. *

*I've walked through wars and watched love fade,

Felt every price that time has paid.

However, I nonetheless wrote with blood and breath, And left my pages here for Death. *

*Not out of fear, nor cry, nor plea,

But to remind what once was me.

A man of words, of dreams and flame,

Who wrote the name but was aware of the cost? *

---

Death listened, silent and still, as the words poured out. In that small, dim room, something sacred began to bloom. Not a prayer. Not a request. But a remembrance — of life, of struggle, of art.

Rayhan paused, eyes distant, remembering days when applause filled his nights and love filled his heart.

"Do you remember the first soul you ever took?" he asked quietly.

Death spoke with gentleness. "I can recall them all." "Then remember me too," Rayhan whispered. "Not as a cadaver sitting in a chair, but as a man who gave you something you couldn't write yourself," Death’s eyes glimmered faintly. I receive a poem from you. I grant you eternal life." Rayhan smiled again, the last of his strength bleeding into the ink.

He wrote the final lines.

---

*So, now take me, my final guest, I've given all, I've done my best.

Additionally, when you travel through dark regions, Remember this from mortal hands:*

*That even Death, who takes the breath,

May pause to read a poem from Death. *

---

As the last word was written, Rayhan’s hand grew still. His eyes closed peacefully as he gently lowered his head. The ink dried beside his final signature.

Death stood motionless. He read the poem again, this time with the quiet reverence of a moved reader rather than the detached gaze of a reaper. He folded the paper carefully, placing it inside his cloak.

The wind began to blow outside. The old house creaked, as if sighing in release.

Death then vanished without a trace, leaving instead a gift. They say that somewhere, in the places between worlds, there is a library where no living soul may go. A quiet hall of voices that once whispered, laughed, and sang. And there, among the shelves of forgotten truths and eternal echoes, lies a poem written not *for* Death, but *to* him.

A poem that he reads when even he needs to remember the beauty in endings.