Death can no longer carry the scythe
A benevolent white sickle
Pushing a soft song through not-yet gold wheat

Death is an outstretched hand
and soul-soothing lies
A cool canteen in the desert, whose sand tastes like hot iron
rubbed against the throat

Death is the trail that leads you
out of faceless eastern woods
and into a plain, warm

In which can be heard
the swish, swish
of a golden white sickle.