We all shall heed the call of the Crown,
In the season of no return, the final hour.
As the humble and the spade-wielding mighty;
In a moment of pure truth, lips sealed like secrets.
Jaws clenched, hands bound, yet with
Eyes as witnesses, ears as sentinels.
Fate is entwined within our grasp, and no more.
In death, we are reborn. Fare-thee-well,
We rejoice in unquenchable grace.
We are mere vines in the grasp of the scythe.
Yet through the scythe’s cut, we bloom forever
With fire, we are made afresh; we shall
We shall become a flowing river
We knew no peace, and we know more peace
And our hearts shall remain in the air forever.
The Reaper’s Call
In death's final hour, we bloom anew — bound by fate, freed by fire, and carried like vines in the Reaper's grasp to eternal peace.
