She be sin's child,
All would she smite:
Whatever's born,
Tho sod it tred,
A sea's depths,
Or airy voids;
As with honed scythe
A reaper cleaves,
All she taketh,
Foretelling none
The dreaded stroke!
You there, reading,
Nay, you know not
If this grim foe
Her sight toward
A neck now brings...
Be fast! She swings!

Translated by Richard Sokoloski