Wheat fields of fall.
Crops and crows for hallowed domains.
Strum and drum, dance for avarice.
Robbed chants echo stone.
Ritual of right to conquer by day and rest at night.
Strewn with warriors, death is easily willed- nay, it is a marionette crushing even the marsh of misunderstanding.
The walls are high but the well are dry.
Lips of the peasant are brittle.
-M