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Under the weight of lengthy shadows drawn by the slowly burrowing sun, the rapturous procession springs from the grove in reciprocative rite.
Where the sharp nails of sleep have drawn eternal portraits.
The withered remnants of harvested grace flesh out the form of decay;
Embalmed in blood and tears, to mark his fate.

Carry him off into the setting sun to find his final resting place.
Let misery follow behind him,let disease echo his fate, let destruction be his consort.

The image of death is plunged into the water. The equinox draws near.

Let it bind loss and raise the harvest till fortune revolves; winter comes again.

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