Death appears to Life as a raven, 

his metallic wings the color of Death’s grasp, of mourning. 

Life, his fingers caked with dirt from digging, quivers. 

Death asks, “Who are you to disturb the cycle of life?” 

Death taunts Life with his soulless eyes, 

his sharp, scythe of a beak threatening to slash. 

Life, once as bright as the first light seen at birth, 

has decayed in response to Death’s presence, 

his facial features the only remnants of his previous tone, 

outlined in white. Even his halo went black, obeying Death.

But Life himself would not prevail. 

Life holds up seven frail fingers. “Seven.” 

“Seven?” Death fumes. “Seven sins?” 

“He is not a child of God,” Life answers. 

“Not serving God is a sin itself. Make it eight.” 

“He is not a child of God, so he will not be damned 

to eternity in hell,” Life says. “Seven. Seven times

he has sinned, so he will atone for them in another 

life as a lesser form. That is how he will pay.” 

As Death continues to taunt Life with his lifeless eyes, 

a lively young sprout emerges from the man in the dirt. 

Death recoils in disgust, lifting a metallic leg in the air.