Yes, death am I, the more bitter the more sweet to my cold quiet heart then does it ly!
And now have ye chosen elders turned ye against each ye, and he against he, and she against she. Deilightfull tis is to my fleshless hands I find it to grasp!
Care not what becomes of ye nieghbor, payment it is only, for my years of hard labor, for sooner is better, but for bitterness and evil will my pang be stayed, untill all come as bound, not in peace but in agony to my hands will ye be paid.
Close ye eyes! Shut ye ears! For not in gold will I pay ye, but perhalps in years, that is years of torment, until ye wish me to come, and commith I will! At that final sound, of despair, when ye cries that thee world is not fair, and not fair wiil ye own hands make it so!
Howbeitso that my wish and longing is now laid in my hands? For never did I forsee such a delightfull hate scape cross these lands, which were once filled with that waiste of time, joy.
Gnaw your mind, pound at thee floor, let anger consume your will and scream silently more, "Have we been forsaken? Why has our hearts, our love been taken? Where is the peace we were promised or was it all faken?"
But most of all, above all the rest, do simply nothing, for I am the best! Of breaking ye will, of plundering ye treaures, even those hidden deep within ye mind which thee wealth ye does not measure, for that is my pleasure.
Ye think of brimstone and fire tis here, but cold, hard and tis filled with fear, ye wil find no light at all, no vision will be clear, even that light from fire will not be here.
Death am I! But tis thee evil and hate that I seek as a boon! Let me now trample down ye house, as if from simple straw was it hewn, and always will I be here, waiting, wanting, tis your hate that I consume!
Always will I be here!