Death walked the streets like a nun watching for bad little boys to discipline. Death opened a church door and drifted in. Like a storm cloud he spread his gloomy self over many. He did skip over some, mostly those whose demise would not greatly upset the others. Instead he picked out a child here, a mother there, and as many of the beautiful as he could. How different they would look in a few days; their flesh would turn gray even before they closed their terrified eyes for the last time and surrendered into his grasp. Then would come decay. The living would bury the dead of course, but beneath the new green grass their faces would drip away, leaving only rotting meat; then that too would be gone, eaten by maggots.
Stephen Foster had asked the eternal question in song: Why must the beautiful ever weep? Why must the beautiful die? Life had no answer. Life knows sunshine and butterflies and green grass but nothing of death. It is said that dying is but a part of life. Horse shit.
Oh optimists, you who will not face the end; what answer have you that is not simply a wish based upon nothing but blind hope and fear?
Ask the fat maggots. Without the beautiful children they would starve. God provides for his creatures, great and small alike.