Death! O dear Death! We despise you, yet we love you. We loathe you, yet we admire you. We are your subjects. We are the janitors of your palace that stands on the hummock no mortal man can reach. We, the despicable cowards, who deny your presence pugnaciously, are but humble servants bowing before you. Our hubris is dearer to us than love, yet before you, in the courtyard of your chateau, we stand, our pride bridled, our lips cracked, and our surreptitious demonism that begged to remain latent, exposed in front of you. We stand bare before you, the tumult breeding in the innermost recesses of our heart declaring its presence. We, who shun you behind your back, now stand, our faces bent down in humiliation, our minds seething with the ill-tidings they hide in their inner chambers. We beg for mercy, for pardon. O Death! O you whom the most pugnacious man fear! In your span of brio, have you ever seen hypocrites such as we are? Do you know people who feign to be your supporters, yet speak ill of you? Die, o Death, for this life is too revolting to be lived, even by veterans such as you. Can you die? I hope you can, for death, O Death, is the fate of all those who are faithful, not of humans such as us, whom even death defies and scorns.