When the Hour Strikes, the Silence Will Speak

O Man of pride! O King of Dust!

O traveler chasing winds and rust!

Thy crown is made of fleeting breath,

Thy throne—a speck beneath the Death.

You dress in robes of pomp and name,

Yet leave the world as how you came.

A wrinkled cloth, a whispered cry,

A grave awaits the who, the why.

You build, you break, you bite, you boast,

You toast with sin, you mock the Ghost.

You think your riches buy you grace,

But Death shall wipe your lying face.

Oh laugh! O mock! O raise thy cup!

The wine of pride will dry up.

The banquet ends, the candles die,

And silence swallows every lie.

They call Him cruel—this Death so black,

Yet all it does is bring us back

To truth, to dust, to silent halls,

Where kings and beggars share four walls.

O Satire sharp and Judgment near,

Why mock the Death you should revere?

For Death is not the thief you dread—

It’s but the end to all you’ve said.

The tongue that spewed a thousand blames,

The lips that framed a million names,

Will stiffen in a silent pose—

And never speak of friends or foes.

Oh soul! You nested in the flesh,

You played with time, forgot the thresh.

You danced, you sinned, you feared not fire,

You chased the gold, ignored the lyre.

The lyre of truth! The trumpet's cry!

That speaks the Day when dead shall rise.

When earth shall split, and bones shall leap,

To meet their Lord—no more to sleep!

The preacher begged you: "Turn, return!"

But you preferred your gold to burn.

You sold your soul for dust and fame,

Now who will save your tainted name?

Look yonder, fool! The graves don't lie.

A king, a slave, they both did die.

Their ribs aligned like bricks and stones—

Their faces lost, their dreams, their thrones.

The child who died before his sin,

The man who lied with grinning chin—

Both sleep beneath the same wide sky,

And ask no more the question “why.”

The tyrant weeps, the martyr laughs,

The Angel reads his final drafts.

The ink was blood, the paper soul,

And now arrives the final scroll.

"O Man!" the angels cry aloud,

"You lied, you mocked, you preached so proud.

You heard the call, you closed your ears,

Now taste the fruit of all your years."

The Day shall come—no light, no sun,

When souls will scream and try to run.

The Book will open, name by name,

And each will burn or rise in flame.

You thought your grave a silent bed,

You made your tombstone marble-red.

But did you write what lies beneath?

A man of virtue—or a thief?

O irony! That you should live

A thousand lies, and still believe

That you could cheat the closing breath,

That you could bargain with your Death.

The child cries out: “Where is my toy?”

The mother mourns her stolen joy.

The soldier limps with bloodied pride,

The traitor burns for those who died.

The scholar writes of time and truth,

Yet fails to hold his fleeting youth.

The artist paints the light and skies,

Then shuts forever both his eyes.

Death unites the brave and vile,

The sage, the thief, the merchant’s smile.

It sings no song of loss or gain—

It weaves all men into the same chain.

O Man, you danced on broken backs,

You built your towers upon cracks.

But Death, the wind, will find your door,

And blow it down forevermore.

You mocked the cripple, cursed the poor,

Forgot they knock on Heaven’s door.

While you, with silver spoon and sin,

Must beg the gate to let you in.

O merchant! With your greedy scale,

Did you not know it too shall fail?

That all your gold and debts and dues,

Are but illusions Death will bruise?

O lover! With your fragrant hair,

Did you not know your skin shall tear?

That beauty fades and lips go dry—

When Death leans in and says, “Goodbye.”

Yet Death, dear friend, is not a foe,

It shows us where we all must go.

It humbles kings and lifts the meek—

It makes the silent dead men speak.

For in that grave, there lies a truth:

No lie survives, no pride, no youth.

No flag, no race, no class, no creed—

Just bones and worms and soul and deed.

The man who gave, the man who prayed,

The one who wept when children strayed—

He walks in light, he drinks from springs,

He lives where Mercy spreads her wings.

But he who mocked, who bribed and killed,

Who loved the throne, the lust, the thrill—

He crawls through fire, he screams and bleeds,

He reaps the death from bitter seeds.

So fear not Death—but fear your life,

Your every whisper, lie, and strife.

For Death shall come with scroll and pen,

To show what you did with your ten.

Ten fingers, ten toes, one breath, one span,

To prove you were a noble man.

Or just a beast in human skin,

A soul too late to let light in.

Why run, O Man? Why boast, why cheat?

When Death is faster on his feet.

He rides no horse, he strikes no drum,

Yet when he knocks, no man can run.

You laugh at preachers, scorn the seers,

But Death will dry your fount of jeers.

And then, in silence, comes the Truth,

The weight of sins, the loss of youth.

The Judgment Throne shall rise and shine,

And none can say, “The fault’s not mine.”

Your fingers wrote your final fate,

While angels watched and whispered, “Wait…”

And now you cry, “Just one more prayer!”

But Death says softly, “I was fair.”

You had your time, your chance to bend—

But now you face your chosen end.

Still, hope remains for hearts that break,

For eyes that cry, for souls that wake.

The gate of mercy still stands wide—

If man lets go his pride, his pride.

Return, O Man, before the fall!

Before the worm becomes your call.

Repent, recall the light you knew,

And Death shall smile and carry you.

To gardens lush, to springs of grace,

To meet your God, to see His face.

For Death is just the passing breeze—

For those who walked on bended knees.

But to the proud, the cruel, the vain,

Death is a storm, a curse, a chain.

It comes to claim what men deny—

That all must die, and none shall lie.

So write your scroll with love and truth,

And carry faith from age to youth.

And when the hour strikes, stand tall—

For Death will come to one and all.

And when the breath has left your frame,

Let angels call your truest name.

The name not given here on Earth—

But earned in silence, love, and worth.