A Dead to his grave: Of which today’s next would be doomsday? O my old chamber! What is doomsday?

The Grave: O hundred years dead do you know, nay! Each death’s hidden need is the doomsday

The Dead: Which death’s hidden need is the doomsday. Fastened in its trap, I would like, nay.

A hundred years dead I am called though, I’m not sick of that dusty gloom so.

If a soul comes back in this body weak, if that is doomsday, to that I wont seek.

A Hidden Voice: No fate of snakes and scorps: nor jungle’s snare, a life long death’s fate is slaves’ only share.

To him cant wake up the Israpheel’s horn, so void of soul body was his life’s thorn.

Would rise from graves the free men alone, though each man’s abode is the grave lone.

The Grave (to her Dead): O fool in this world you were the men slave, now I follow why pinched me the grave.

My gloom from thy body added more gloom, the veil of Earth’s honour in rags did loom.

Shun hundred times from a slave’s body then, O Seraph! O Soul! O God! Of whole men.

A Mysterious Voice: From doomsday shakes the world’s order though, this noise but opes; the Beings Secrets so.

From tremors, like clouds move the hills and dales, the tremors ope fountains in dales and vales.

A new built up needs a total wreck, through wreck life breaks all the bottlenecks.

Earth: Oh! This lasting death! Oh battle! For life would the world ever, end its strife. A riddance from her idols, world cant get, a savant or layman are Lot’s’ slaves yet. How much man lowered who had Godly part's such world’s stay a load on eyes and hearts. Why is there no morn of such a man’s night?