ＦＯＲ ＨＯＷ ＭＡＮＹ ＢＩＬＬＩＯＮＳ ＯＦ ＹＥＡＲＳ ＤＯＥＳ ＴＨＥ ＣＯＲＰＳＥ ＯＦ Ａ ＳＴＡＲ ＳＭＯＬＤＥＲ？

[Aesopian 1080]

Kindled out of embers, fire that she remembers.
The crackles and the pops, the music seldom stops.

 

Kill the unkillable and drink the undrinkable,
burn the metal and flesh, as easy as sickles thresh.

 

Twelve they number, and twelve shall die.
Their song ends with their final cry.

 

The song that lives on in every humble beetle's chitter,
in the pained birthing whimpers of a wolf's fresh litter.

 

Within the rustling of the leaves, touched by the wind's dance,
or in the thud of elk across the fields as they prance.

 

Even slow and deep, the tumbling of rocks down the ravine,
from its wound the mountain spills its marble sheen.

 

The world's eternal chorus, crying out its verse,
from across the sky and stars they will traverse.

 

One of the twelve, but now she will be one.
With their deaths, her work is not yet done.

 

She harvests with the scythe, cutting away the weeds that writhe.
She parts the wheat from the chaff, this work she does on God's behalf.

 

A song to be cut and made anew,  
In her heart she knows it is true.

- Author Unknown