A warm acoustic figure is already walking its path—plain, close, no cover.

Voice arrives inside that pulse: ice-cold hands taking hold.

Death answers almost at once—heaven or hell, same chair.

The melody turns into address: O, Death.

Spare me over till another year—and the groove just keeps its footing.

Someone would ask Death to wait another day.

Children, preacher—time and mercy sit out of reach, said evenly.

Legs fixed, jaw locked—each loss lands on the same repeating step.

Eyes closed until the air itself goes with Death.

Take the soul, leave the body cold—still ceremonial, still steady.

Earth and worm both claim the frame.

Refrain comes back, and again right after—less interruption now, more the place the song lives.

Indoors now: mother at the bed, cold towel on the head.

Head warm, feet cold—Death moving on the soul while the beat keeps bedside time.

How you're treatin' me—eyes closed, body hurt, life pulled out.

O, Death again—the ear already knows the turn before it finishes.

New argument: consider my age—don't take me at this stage.

Wealth laid out if the icy hand will move.

Old, young, rich, poor—all alike. The steadiness starts to feel like law.

No wealth, no land, no silver, no gold—nothing satisfies but the soul.

Last full refrain—small ornaments flash on the familiar motion.

Same plea again, still circling.

Just the request now, stripped: spare me over till another year.

The line falls away. Long silence opens—and the pulse still runs in the ear.

Music returns as residue—no words steering it, just a low bowed drone.

The sustained tone holds close, rough at the edge, with pressure and overtones shifting inside it.

The drone stays continuous while its grain changes in the bow.

More exposed now—the bowed tone thins and stands out in the room.

The bowed tone keeps thinning into room air, then lets go into silence.