You are entitled to nothing.
Even your body will be taken from you, its dusty prison of flesh.
Your bones are stomped ever deeper into the earthen floor,
Where you may prepare to dream in the dark soil of winter earth.
You once sprouted life, now you feed death,
And all that has died is feeding the new.

The harvest has begun. They come to feast.

Penned by my hand on Tisday, the 13th of Severin, in the year 504 MA.