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.
