Even Death cries

A night with not a sound, not even the crickets, and the chilling winds speak. The moon was full and bright keeping the darkness from hiding the thieves of the night. Death held his scythe within his gentle, cold grasps. He sat there dejectedly, his empty eyes fixed of the soft clouds of the sky. As he held his hoary ripped cloak.

"Oh, how I wish to be like a cloud. It's free as can be, not troubled by the sorrow and dread down below. Not even bothered by where the wind takes it. While I'm here dealing with the troubles of men, so much war, and pain. Nor do I get to rest, like the souls who leave this agonizing world."

While Death let out his woe's, a Raven overheard him. "Oh Death, why do you cry, for do you not have to worry about hunger, like I and my brethren, and do you worry you'll die from thirst, like the the creatures of the desert."

Death turned to the Raven. "I guess we all have something to cry and complain about oh Raven." He held out his hand, and the Raven sat upon it. "Come let us go."