When the soul tires and grows sick,
Death moves faster and draws quick,
Like a puppet on strings it sings spring,
Dancing in no base but a string,

Had it been but his talented craft,
A proper artist’s sole draft,
Whispers and whispers perfection,
Time’s long profound intervention,

His voice echoes with no sound,
His steps batter the bare ground,
Oh fear that shaken the heart,
Leave and don’t let the soul depart,

I hid my soul, my virtue away,
And it’s been hidden since that day,
I lived my life long time ago,
But no one dares or strives to know.
There are two characters in the poem. There is death and there is the speaker.

I cannot explain any further.