The buried past calls back — what was once sacrifice now hungers to be repaid.

Old veins beneath the furrows run,

Carrying names of the buried ones.

When we drink, we taste their sleep—

Their memory sours in what we reap.

The elder tree is bleeding where no wound should ever be,

Its sap runs dark and heavy with ancestral misery.

The roots have split the chapel, the floorboards quake with sound,

Of something crawling upward from the consecrated ground.

A hundred sons forgotten now whisper through the stems,

Their voices soft as rainfall in the marrow of their friends.

We reap what they remember, though their tongues have long decayed,

The harvest sings of hunger that the living ones obeyed.

Beneath our feet, the hearts still beat,

The blood we spilled, the soil repeats.

Our roots are graves, our prayers are lies,

The land still hungers, though it dies.

The roots have grown through skull and spine,

Through every oath, through every shrine.

The field is one vast open vein,

Where gods once walked and men remain.

Beneath our feet, the hearts still beat,

The blood we spilled, the soil repeats.

No harvest pure, no fruit is clean,

All life is fed by what has been.

Hands in the dirt, hearts in the clay,

We cannot wash our guilt away.

The roots remember, though we forget,

And bind us in their silhouette.

The river swells with iron hue,

The wheat turns red, the wind blows true.

We eat, we sing, we drink our fill—

The soil remembers. The roots are still.

Beneath our feet, the hearts still beat,

The blood we spilled, the soil repeats.

From seed to sin, the line is drawn,

The roots remember. We are gone.

And in the dark, the harvest hums,

A dirge for all that man becomes.

The soil keeps faith where flesh decays,

The roots remember. Always.