Death - a poem for the late

The day was still young,
and the sun shone,
flowers bloomed,
birds sang.

It seems like such a crime,
for the world,
to be so joyus,
on this day.

His father,
sat near his son's bed,
the small child,
fading away.

He felt his hand,
it went cold,
at his touch.
*******************

Though the window,
univited,
came a figure,
robed in black.

From Death's outstreched hand,
came a chill,
cold enough,
to freeze the Earth.

The father cried,
"Oh Death, what has my son done to deserve such a fate?"

He replied,
"I don't come for your son, I was sent.
I don't want to be here.
Life is love.
But it is my duty."

Moral- Death is an accident. We must move on, knowing that they are with us in every step.