The wind whips by bearing rain’s fragrance,
Cold cutting knives on faces of vagrants.
Let the deluge begin so I may follow,
Down into the soil.
I shed no sighs when Sun starts searing,
Should water turn frost I’ll not be tearing.
No day or night or man be hallowed
For all that exists, exists in toil.

I walk on war yet under thunderclouds,
Wet and bloodied, head is bowed.
Let the downpour help me drown,
The easiest way to breathe.
Rather be washed away by water, than live to fight for man,
I flee so I can fall, be forgotten, and ferment.
Flowers cover caskets like crowns,
Carnations worn as laurel wreathes.

My six feet of dirt, my wood, my worms,
I need no water death confirms.
But let the deluge that I shall never see,
Come meet me in the soil.
I wait in wood and dark and dry,
And pine for days of wet and sky.
Loving things lost, when I ceased to be,
I never ceased to toil.


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