The farmer walks into the field, with his tool in hand. Looking, searching for the place, inside this stretch of land. He walks beneath the sunless sky, his attire unflawed and clean. Wherever he steps, the adjacent grass, Becomes devoid of green. For this is no common farmer, Nor is it common land. And it is no common tool, Clutched in his grisly hand. This creature is named in legends, A fiend of the ancient past, In his hand, a spell book, to wake the mortals passed. The field a bloody battle ground, Littered with the dead, A site where no one lived in fame, A site where no one fled, The farmer takes his tool in hand, and starts to plant the seeds. Knowing he will be well rewarded, From this day of deeds.
Reason for writing:
To see what others think.
Birth sign: Not entered
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