The sun goes down upon the Ankh,
And slowly, softly fades –
Across the Drum; the Royal Bank;
The River-Gate; the Shades.
A stony circle’s closed to elves;
And here, where lines are blurred,
Between the stacks of books on shelves,
A quiet ‚Ook‘ is heard.
A copper steps the city-street
On paths he’s often passed;
The final march; the final beat;
The time to rest at last.
He gives his badge a final shine,
And sadly shakes his head –
While Granny lies beneath a sign
That says: ‚I aten’t dead.‘
The Luggage shifts in sleep and dreams;
It’s now. The time’s at hand.
For where it’s always night, it seems,
A timer clears of sand.
And so it is that Death arrives,
When all the time has gone…
But dreams endure, and hope survives,
And Discworld carries on.