Disclaimer: Good Omens belongs to the geniuses Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman.
Born of Men.
War
She is in the cold desperation of a soldier's eyes, the speed of a
bullet as it flies through the air, the dying cry of the fatally
hurt, the blood that seeps into the earth.
She walks among them, unseen, revelling in the libations of blood and the offerings of weapons; the blood-soaked evening sky is reflected in her eyes as she laughs.
Famine
He is in the dry, cracked land, the failed crops, the empty bowls,
the weakened limbs that grasp futilely at empty air, imagining food,
the vulture who watches and waits for a child to die.
He opens his mouth and devours the engorged bellies and spindly limbs, and meets the gazes that search so desperately for food.
Pestilence
He is in the dry cough that racks a woman's thin body, the spots that
cover a child's skin, the evil-smelling pus flowing from wounds, the
feverish heat of clammy foreheads.
He licks the pus and strokes the spots, and laughs at the tiny white pills and thick sugary liquids that presume to stop him.
Pollution
He is in the rainbow-coloured oil slick that spreads upon the ocean's surface, the curling tendrils of smoke spiralling upwards into the now-grey sky, the funeral pyres of rainforests, the sting of acid in the spring rain.
He admires his work as an artist would his masterpiece, and marvels at the sheer beauty of it all.
Death
He is everywhere; in the withered bones of an old man in a hospital, in the mangled bodies on a battlefield, in the starved eyes of a child, in the oil-coated wings of now flightless birds, in the richest palace and the filthiest slum, in the driest desert and coldest iceland.
He is Azrael, Creation's shadow, everywhere at once; he is both feared and worshipped, and he never gives back what he takes.