Before names were carved in stone,
Before iron tasted blood,
The people of the green places danced with Death.

They crowned themselves with leaves and berries,
Bared their skin to bark and thorn,
Welcomed Death into the circle,
Winter feared, honored, worn.

Death came then in borrowed shape,
Bone wrapped in moss and swords,
Watched and counted and learned the rhythm,
Of breath, of laughter, of the world.

And for a long age, the world was whole.

But hunger crept in people’s heart,
They looked at Death and saw a gate,
They asked how much, how soon, how long,

How long a body could endure?
How many lives be bound together?
What if the boundary was torn?

They broke the circle.
They stole the instruments of Death,
And Death responded.

Bodies welded into one,
Mouths fed without filling,
Death walked on hills of bodies and called itself living.

Storms screamed and split the skies.
Roots recoiled from the soil.
The world cracked.
From the wound spread white veins of ruin,
Branching beneath forests and cities alike.

Death no longer dances.
The wild remembers.

So, I implore you, wanderer beloved,
Do not ask how much life can be taken,
Only how it should be released.