DEATH

The rate at which plant grows is inversely proportional to the rate at which they die.
Oh!Death,where hath thou?
You that use your mysterious neddle to sting the child.
You are never seen
But your handy works are observe.
Death,you bring cold in the hot season.
You turn the landlord into a charting bowl of the tenant.
You make those who call to be called.
Your cold hand is enough to turn hot away.
Death!
Old people fears you.
The young are scared when they hear your name.
The great ones are no more
The young are no where to be find
Sleep well!Great ones.