The Sons of Cain: Poetry


The frost sets in with second skin,
the land all goes to rot,
the shovel gets stuck in a partial rut
though you've given it all you've got

Or the rivers run dry with a fiery cry
that comes from feverish heat;
So there's no respite from famine's blight
upon the crops and wheat

The final nail sinks with a sound that thinks
"nothing will rest forever";
The caretaker sighs under grayish skies
while the family holds it together

It's all the same when the land takes claim
to one of it's own;
For all the toil going into the soil
is not a single man's work alone

And atop the earthly bed that covers their Dead
the epitaph screams plain:
"Here lie the forms of all those torn
from life as Sons of Cain."

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