It was a summer dusk,
And the sun was hiding its last gold,
Like a miser who wishes to,
Save his riches for ages old.
Knocked on my hut a traveler,
To take me away with him,
But for the very shame I could not come,
Leaving my place dim.
For even after promises of love and fawning,
His mannerisms betrayed his words,
His cloak had a black aura,
And from his belts, hung swords.
His eyes gleamed of peace though,
But his hands were bloody red.
He called me again, but I refused,
For his name was death.
And, then I closed the door,
But, someone knocked again.
This time it was another traveler,
Came to materialise his gains.
His eyes gleamed of struggle,
But his mannerisms depicted otherwise,
His smile was compassionate,
And a gown of peaceful white.
He promised of euphoria,
But, was hiding something deep.
Then again, he was on white horse,
And of riches, had a heap.
Thus, out of abasing furor,
I jumped on his horse with my wife,
But, it was another machination of the traveler,
For his name was life.