The life it does burst and bloom
all around the silent tomb
to the west the grass is bathed in dew,
like us, unaware of impending doom.
The blade’s edge that we once knew,
and forever swore we would eschew,
now comes to spill their blood:
the reaper’s scythe to collect his due.
Thriving in the murkiest mud,
surviving the deepest flood…
Only a sharp cut will do,
to be the end of a yellow bud.