Song of the Stygian Farmers by Andrew Brenza
We harrow the maggot vines from Earth’s dead grip.
We spade the arid furrows, livery with worms.
Shadows cast from formless bodies, we sow
Hell’s writhing seed in bitter dust to germ.
From barren trees, frenetic mobs of cloven beaks
Shriek and cry through throats inured
To coax the hollow ghosts from vacant holes
And drive them to the lakes to burn.
In freezing night, comes the slinking of the moles;
Teeth growing and eyeless, they surge
To feast on the fragments of the untethered souls
And ease the maggot roots’ return.
Thus, we rip the crust of vines from Earth’s dead fingers
And spade the open veins, glistening with worms.
Shadows thrown from formless bodies, we stuff
Hell’s writhing seed in sterile dust to germ.