Knocking at the Door

Beneath earth is the abyss
A mythical place of strange beings
Knocking at the door, said the apocalypse.
We are startled by the sound of knocking
On our door by someone during the night
And the sound of footsteps rustling outside
in the dark, disturbing the silence of ambiance.
And nightingales whistle out of mulberry trees,
above the shadow of a figure stood at the door.
The rain now falling almost absorb the sound,
which was made dim again upon the door.
And a voice from outside in between the rain.
Said behold.
I am standing outside your door knocking,
but no one is coming to open the door for me.
No one is looking through the windowsill,
enquiring of the reason for my visiting
to see on what ground I am standing still.
But only a few sojourners in the distance,
Alone, with their burdens slowly walking
Heard the faint knocking upon the door.
In the busy tide of the world's anxieties.
If anyone hears my voice and opens the door
I will come in invited and sup with them
To that voice calling the world of men
Stood in the light reflection of a daystar
Throng by angels that go up to heaven,
with precious prayers from awakening hearts,
Stirred in their lives and justifiable shaken
By the saviour's penitent patient call
The door is the heart and them that must listen
Felt relieved in their soul for answering the door.
While the world is busy digging out dirt
Beneath a host of the stargazing eyes
Suddenly, there is another knock on the door,
Even louder than before but no footsteps moving
No nightingales singing in the mulberry trees
But cold wind makes the door burst open
This wind made the inhabitants within tremble
For not a kind word to them was spoken.
Only fear echoing through the dark stillness
From the power in silence surging downwards
They Plunged regrettably, swiftly into the abyss.