I feel the shadow's hand begin to pass
Cloaked in a springtime garb
It drank deep off our tired land
Drawing greedily from our well of souls
And uprooting forests
While we huffed and sighed
Under a strong roof
The shadow took its fill
Scything down what we shrugged as chaff
We watched only the whitest lambs
The shadow lifts and we rejoice
Turning back on the dwindling harvest
We have lost a storehouse of memory and love
Will those mourners ever be seen
Each tear wept smudging a name
There will not be enough days
To know the bewildered dead
I feel the shadow pass
Darker than before.
@nepion_boreas17
