Wisping wheat waving in the wind
The Harvester's scythe slices the stalks thinly,
And severs their sins.
***
Oh! Old Harvester, who reaps the stalks with heavy spirit.
His bone-white hands heave the crescent blade,
And the waving wheat fear it.
***
Cut from their roots,
The fiber stems meander
Sailing the wind, they pass on by Flanders.
***
And through Orleans, or some other Deathfield.
The cities of plagues
The corpse and his shield
***
Did not protect him, or her or them.
Now they are gone
Lost like a stem
***
Of one ear of wheat, or ten or more
A thousand, billions even
Abandoned from their wars
***
Now they float on the river Styx,
Leaving the Harvester alone.
Forever to toil His fields of grain.
His labors, forever unknown…