I see a woman,
In the old park,
She feels her years,
And the pain comes.
I see her hands,
Old and wrinkled.
A ring on her finger,
No longer there,
Where is her man?
Where is her love?
She tells me her story,
As I sit down,
Holding a gun,
In my left hand.
Somehow she knows,
What I mean to do.
I think my time has come.
She tells me her story,
Her man is dead,
Gone to his grave,
And his much deserved rest.
She tells of her children,
All dead, and gone.
Most stillborn, and all gone.
She tells of her sadness,
Gripping her hands tight,
And tells a stranger, of her plight.
She tells of her sadness,
And says she must die,
There is nothing left,
And she wants to rest.
Her time here is done.
She tells me her story,
And the shadows grow long,
She lies down silently,
and closes her eyes.
As her last breathe sighs,
She says one last thing.
"It is not your time to die."
Tears spill from my eyes,
As I stand, and walk away.
The gun sits on the bench,
I saw in her eyes,
It is not my time to die.
I still have time on this world,
Time to make it all right.
Time to find love,
Time to find life.
It is not my time to die.
The old woman did me a favor,
And showed to me,
That I do not deserve rest,
Till I look through her eyes.
It is not my time to die.
