Yield the fruits and spoils,
Cankerous, fat boils,
Ichor, rancid lips,
Swirling dirt in sips.

Call them, they that fade,
Children, Earthen made,
Sanguine, skin frayed silk,
Curdled, blackened milk.

Sing us into being,
Setting shadows free,
Embrace the world anew,
The pure, the proud, the few.

Obsidian in our veins,
Salted, bitter, refrains,
Chorusing cicada screams,
Sundered cyclic seams.


Penned by my hand on Falsday, the 10th of Khepary, in the year 497 MA.