Week 5 Story: Death Defends Herself

My name is Death, and I know you well.

I know you’ve cursed my name.

You’re not alone; it’s everyone

Who thinks I should be tamed.

I assure you, no one ever sees

That I am not to blame,

But instead it is my sister Grief

Who will kick you ‘til you’re lame.

She’ll hold you down and not let go,

She’ll latch on way too tight.

She’ll climb up on your back and stay,

Through day and through the night.

But I, I am the wandering wind,

Looping in and out of sight.

I leave, I don’t I don’t disturb you long!

It’s her you want to fight!

Take this woman, Kisagotami.

Yes, I stole her only son.

It’s just what I’m supposed to do,

And she’s not the only one.

But that doesn’t mean I’m evil, you know.

I’m just a fact you can’t out-run.

Accept me as part of the scenery;

For Death will win as Death has won.

But let’s return to Kisagotami:

I tried to let her be.

I did my task and packed my bags,

Then I left so she could be free.

But Grief came in before I’d closed the door,

And made Kisagotami fall to her knees.

So now the poor woman curses my name,

Because Grief told her the pain was from me!

She holds her son to her breast and crawls without hope.

I never wished that upon her, I swear.

My job is to end what has begun.

It’s the circle of life, and it’s fair.

But what my sister does to her is cruel,

Look how she pulls out her hair!

When I took her son, my eyes were kind,

But Grief is an icy-cold stare.

In time and with hardship this poor mother will learn

That although she cannot avoid Fate,

She need not keep Grief on her back forever;

She must shun her before it’s too late.

And then she will see that it’s not me she fears,

But Grief that put her in such a state.

She will smile and laugh and throw back her head

Once she has finally shed that weight.

Angel of Death, statue in Wrocław, Poland.

Source: Flickr.

Author's Note: This ballad is based on "The Wise Physician," a Jataka tale. Jataka tales are Buddhist stories used for teaching, usually featuring the Buddha in some incarnation. This particular story is about a mother who loses her only son. In her grief, she carries her son around the village and asks everyone for medicine that will heal him. She is pointed toward the Buddha, who tells her that she only needs to bring him some mustard-seed (a very simple and common ingredient), but that it must come from a household in which no one has died. At every house, she learns that someone has died. She comes back to the Buddha and says that she could not find the mustard-seed, but that she has learned that no one can escape death. She learns that everything is impermanent, and she is healed, even though her son is not. Since the story focuses on death and its inevitability, and since the woman ends up healing from the death of her son, I decided to write a ballad from the point of view of Death incarnate, who declares that she is a natural part of living and it is only Grief, who causes one to hang onto the pain of impermanency, that hurts people. I don't necessarily agree that death is easy to get over when we realize that everything is impermanent, but I thought it would be fun to give indignant Death a voice!

Bibliography: "The Wise Physician" from Eastern Stories and Legends by Marie Shedlock. Link to the reading online.