Once doth the crows' cries bellow about the masterless farm. Twice doest the farmer's plow descend upon the sunny land by a singular arm. One arm doest the farmer only hath, the other a withered stump did lie. His body a twig of a tree whose fusty age still shows, shows of the hardships yond that gent himself hadst. After all, the scars of the farm art the scars of the farmer.
For each mound plow'd flat, one mound doest riseth past. Past upon the palm doth the callus goeth. Yet nay groans nor moans escapeth his that from which we speak. Weak wast that gent and the land which he towed. Towing only weeds which seemed to be the only life that grows. The land nay longer belongs to the farmer but to the crows.
Twice doth the crow’s cries bellow about the masterless farm. Thrice doest the farmer ignore and plow once more. However, the plow was rejected by the land. The cold and hard earth didn't want to be moved, afraid that a new scar would form. “Forgive me for neglecting ye, I only ask to work and amend myself to thee!” the scratchy voice of the farmer cried. He plowed once more yet the land still denied. Its further denial caused the sunshine to die, taking away the farmer’s sight. Sighing, the farmer took off the pendant which dangled upon his chest. Placing it upon the land and laying it to rest.
This time the land accepted, and the pendant slowly sank into the earth which will protect it.
It was then that the crows' unified cry rumbled through the sky, “Thous time hath finally arrived!”
The farmer roared back, “Me king hath taken me money, yet yee hath taken me family!”
The crows responded to the dying roar in kind. They squawked ferociously as they merged and converged, leaving a rain of feathers as a present to the land below. No hope was in the eyes of the farmer as he stared at the contrived crow. The colossal crow's contorted eye stared emotionlessly at the farmer's chest.
“Give thy pendant and all debt shall be forgiven,” the crow's beak lifelessly flapped.
“What value doth you’re forgiveness hath?” questioned the farmer. His grip tightened around the plow, causing his mountainous calluses to bleed a river of blood into its dried and dead wooden grip.
“Thy life shall continue.”
“And what value doth me life hath?” laughed the farmer.
“Past thy prime is thee. Thy pendant I will receive!” declared the crow.
“Not with me still standing,” retorted the farmer.
“I am death and death comes to al-,” within a second did the giant crow’s body shatter. The farmer himself had his arm stretched out, with a shattered handle of what once was a plow. The farmer shook his body to shake off the rust and thus waited for the crows to come. Black feathers and bright red blood did fuel the land, to brace the earth for the inevitable last stand. The crow may rule the sky, yet it hath to come down to dance on the earth. The very earth that thee farmer hath lived, cried, towed, and will die on.
