Angel of death

[lady illusie]

Proudly she flies
Her blackend wings spread
But then sore and sick she cries
Her wings burn in dread
Without wings she falls
Down on our earth
With her falls sickness
And takes our childrens birth
As missery takes hold with our lifes she feeds
She Takes the week and old
And forfilles her needs
She knows you are young without fright
But just maybe she might
Take your last breath
And bring you death.