With ills unseen the phantom plague doth lurk,
Where sickness stirs in the bowels of distress,
And such bitter poison has gone berserk;
As pained loss hallmarks this evil illness.
Death hath called upon the weak and frightened;
A bitter chill hath swept the land-living,
Where fear forsaken tis not enlightened,
In virus pitiless unforgiving.
To be diseased ere that was misfortune,
Hailed forth to walk ahead into the light,
For ne’er was a blow’s sting so importune
As a spider’s venom is to a bite,
But thence I find strength to o’er power such might,
Till day comes to pray in religious rite.